< 


»»»••••»••• •••••I 


IS 


RECORDS  OF 


TENNYSON,  RUSKIN,  BROWNING 


i ../•.'  .'....::•  . • .    ' 


ALFRED   TENNYSON 
From  a  photograph  by  the  Autotype  Company,  London 


RECORDS  OF 


TENNYSON,  RUSKIN,  BROWNING 


BY 

ANNE    RITCHIE 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 
1893 


"  Mind  that  there  is  always  a  certain  cachet  about  great  men — they 
speak  of  common  life  more  largely  and  generously  than  common  men 
do — they  regard  the  world  with  a  manlier  countenance,  and  see  its  real 
features  more  fairly  than  the  timid  shufflers  who  only  dare  to  look  up 
at  life  through  blinkers,  or  to  have  an  opinion  when  there  is  a  crowd 
to  back  it." — English  Humorists. 

"  '  I  remember  poor  Byron,  Hobhouse,  Trelawney,  and  myself, 
dining  with  Cardinal  Mezzocaldo  at  Rome,'  Captain  Sumph  began, 
'  and  we  had  some  Orvieto  wine  for  dinner,  which  Byron  liked  very 
much.  And  I  remember  how  the  Cardinal  regretted  that  he  was  a 
single  man.  We  went  to  Civita  Vecchia  two  days  afterwards  where 
Byron's  yacht  was — and,  by  Jove,  the  Cardinal  died  within  three  weeks, 
and  Byron  was  very  sorry  for  he  rather  liked  him.' 

"'A  devilish  interesting  story,  indeed,'  Wagg  said.  'You  should 
publish  some  of  these  stories,  Captain  Sumph,  you  really  should,' 
Shandon  said." — Pendennis. 


Copyright,  1892,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


TO 

HELENA    FAUCIT,   LADY    MARTIN 

AND   TO 

SIR  THEODORE  MARTIN,  K.C.B. 
DeDfcateO 

WITH  OLD  AFFECTION  AND 
REMEMBRANCE 

ii  May,  1892 

IMOGEN.   "  'Mongst  Friends"     Cymbeline,  III.  vi. 


CONTENTS 


ALFRED   TENNYSON i 

JOHN  RUSKIN .       .     61 

ROBERT  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING    127 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

Alfred    Tennyson Frontispiece 

Tennyson's  Birthplace,  Somersby  Rectory,  Lincolnshire    .  5 

Mrs.  Tennyson ....  9 

Tennyson's  Children 15 

Clevedon  Court 19 

The  Meeting  of  the  Severn  and  Wye 24 

Caerleon  upon  Usk 27 

Burleigh  House,  by  Stamford  Town 30 

Almesbury 33 

Farringford  House,  Isle  of  Wight 37 

In  the  New  Forest 41 

Tennyson   Reading  "  Maud  " 45 

Farringford  Beacon 47 

The  Oak  Lawn,  Aldworth 49 

The  Edge  of  Blackdown,  Showing  Tennyson's  House    .  53 

Tennyson's  Home  at  Aldworth,  Surrey       ....  57 

The  Tennyson  Coat  of  Arms 60 

Brantwood 63 

John   Ruskin 71 

Looking  from  Brantwood  Towards  the  Head  of  Coniston 

Lake 75 

The  Turret  Room  —  Ruskin's  Bedroom         ....  79 

Coniston— Old  Hall  and  Old  Man 85 

Entrance  to  Brantwood 91 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 133 

Robert  Browning 141 

Mrs.  Browning's  Tomb  at  Florence 151 

Mr.  Milsand        .        -        .        .  • 159 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


"A  footfall  there 
Suffices  to  upturn  to  tbe  -warm  air 
Half  germinating  spices  ;  mere  decay 
"Produces  richer  life ;  and  day  by  day 
New  pollen  on  tbe  HI  v- petal  grows, 
And  still  more  labyrinthine  buds  tbe  rose." 

SORDELLO. 


THERE  is  a  place  called  Somersby  in  Lincolnshire, 
where  an  old  white  rectory  stands  on  the  slope  of  a 
hill,  and  the  winding  lanes  are  shadowed  by  tall  ashes  and 
elm-trees,  and  where  two  brooks  meet  at  the  bottom  of  the 
glebe  field.  It  is  a  place  far  away  from  us  in  silence  and  in 
distance,  lying  upon  the  "  ridged  wolds."  They  bound  the 
horizon  of  the  rectory  garden,  whence  they  are  to  be  seen 
flowing  to  meet  the  sky.  I  have  never  known  Somersby, 
but  I  have  often  heard  it  described,  and  the  pastoral  country 
all  about,  and  the  quiet,  scattered  homes.  One  can  picture 
the  rectory  to  one's  self  with  something  of  a  monastic  sweet- 
ness and  quiet;  an  ancient  Norman  cross  is  standing  in  the 
church-yard,  and  perhaps  there  is  still  a  sound  in  the  air  of 
the  bleating  of  flocks.  It  all  comes  before  one  as  one  reads 
the  sketch  of  Tennyson's  native  place  in  the  Homes  and 
Haunts  of  the  British  Poets :  the  village  not  far  from  the 
fens,  "  in  a  pretty  pastoral  district  of  softly  sloping  hills  and 
large  ash-trees.  .  .  .  The  little  glen  in  the  neighborhood  is 
called  by  the  old  monkish  name  of  Holywell."  Lord  Tenny- 
son sometimes  speaks  of  this  glen,  which  he  remembers 
white  with  snow-drops  in  their  season ;  and  who  will  not 
recall  the  exquisite  invocation : 


' '  Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray  hill-side, 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door, 

3 


And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 

To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed  sand, 

Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves.  .  .  . 

O  !  hither  lead  thy  feet ! 
Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  beat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  folds, 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds." 

The  wind  that  goes  blowing  where  it  listeth,  once,  in  the 
early  beginning  of  this  century,  came  sweeping  through  the 
garden  of  this  old  Lincolnshire  rectory,  and,  as  the  wind 
blew,  a  sturdy  child  of  five  years  old  with  shining  locks  stood 
opening  his  arms  upon  the  blast  and  letting  himself  be  blown 
along,  and  as  he  travelled  on  he  made  his  first  line  of  poetry 
and  said,  "  I  hear  a  voice  that's  speaking  in  the  wind,"  and 
he  tossed  his  arms,  and  the  gust  whirled  on,  sweeping  into 
the  great  abyss  of  winds.  One  might,  perhaps,  still  trace  in 
the  noble,  familiar  face  of  our  Poet  Laureate  the  features  of 
this  child,  one  of  many  deep-eyed  sons  and  daughters  born 
in  the  quiet  rectory  among  the  elm-trees. 

Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  on  the  6th  of  August,  1809. 
He  has  heard  many  and  many  a  voice  calling  to  him  since 
the  time  when  he  listened  to  the  wind  as  he  played  alone 
in  his  father's  garden,  or  joined  the  other  children  at  their 
games  and  jousts.  They  were  a  noble  little  clan  of  poets 
and  of  knights,  coming  of  a  knightly  race,  with  castles  to 
defend,  with  mimic  tournaments  to  fight.  Somersby  was  so 
far  away  from  the  world,  so  behindhand  in  its  echoes  (which 
must  have  come  there  softened  through  all  manner  of  green 
and  tranquil  things,  and,  as  it  were,  hushed  into  pastoral 
silence),  that  though  the  early  part  of  the  century  was  stir- 
ring with  the  clang  of  legions,  few  of  its  rumors  seem  to 
have  reached  the  children.  They  never  heard  at  the  time 
of  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  They  grew  up  together  playing 
their  own  games,  living  their  own  life ;  and  where  is  such 


life  to  be  found  as  that  of  a  happy,  eager  family  of  boys  and 
girls  before  Doubt,  the  steps  of  Time,  the  shocks  of  Chance, 
the  blows  of  Death,  have  come  to  dim  or  shake  their  creed  ? 

These  handsome  children  had  beyond  most  children  that 
wondrous  toy  at  their  command  which  some  people  call 
imagination.  The  boys  played  great  games  like  Arthur's 
Icnights ;  they  were  champions  and  warriors  defending  a 
stone  heap,  or  again  they  would  set  up  opposing  camps  with 
a  king  in  the  midst  of  each.  The  king  was  a  willow  wand 
stuck  into  the  ground,  with  an  outer  circle  of  immortals  to 
defend  him  of  firmer,  stiffer  sticks.  Then  each  party  would 
come  with  stones,  hurling  at  each  other's  king,  and  trying  to 
overthrow  him.  Perhaps  as  the  day  wore  on  they  became 
romancers,  leaving  the  jousts  deserted.  When  dinner-time 
came,  and  they  all  sat  round  the  table,  each  in  turn  put  a 
chapter  of  his  story  underneath  the  potato-bowl — long,  end- 
less stories,  chapter  after  chapter  diffuse,  absorbing,  unend- 
ing, as  are  the  histories  of  real  life  ;  some  of  these  romances 
were  in  letters,  like  Clarissa  Harlowe.  Alfred  used  to  tell 
a  story  which  lasted  for  months,  and  which  was  called  "  The 
Old  Horse." 

Alfred's  first  verses,  so  I  once  heard  him  say,  were  written 
upon  a  slate  which  his  brother  Charles  put  into  his  hand  one 
Sunday  at  Louth,  when  all  the  elders  of  the  party  were  go- 
ing into  church,  and  the  child  was  left  alone.  Charles  gave 
him  a  subject — the  flowers  in  the  garden — and  when  he 
came  back  from  church  little  Alfred  brought  the  slate  to  his 
brother  all  covered  with  written  lines  of  blank  verse.  They 
were  made  on  the  model  of  Thomson's  Seasons,  the  only 
poetry  he  had  ever  read.  One  can  picture  it  all  to  one's 
self :  the  flowers  in  the  garden,  the  verses,  the  little  poet 
with  waiting  eyes,  and  the  young  brother  scanning  the  lines. 
"Yes,  you  can  write,"  said  Charles,  and  he  gave  Alfred  back 
the  slate. 

7 


I  have  also  heard  another  story  of  his  grandfather,  later 
on,  asking  him  to  write  an  elegy  on  his  grandmother,  who 
had  recently  died,  and  when  it  was  written,  putting  ten  shil- 
lings into  his  hands  and  saying,  "  There,  that  is  the  first 
money  you  have  ever  earned  by  your  poetry,  and,  take  my 
word  for  it,  it  will  be  the  last." 

The  Tennysons  are  a  striking  example  of  the  theory  of 
family  inheritance.  Alfred  was  one  of  twelve  children,  of 
whom  the  eldest,  Frederick,  who  was  educated  at  Eton,  is 
known  as  the  author  of  very  imaginative  poems.  Charles 
was  the  second  son,  and  Alfred  was  the  third.  Charles 
and  little  Alfred  were  sent  for  a  few  years  to  the  Grammar 
School  at  Louth,  where  the  Laureate  was  not  happy,  al- 
though he  still  remembers  walking  adorned  with  blue  rib- 
bons in  a  procession  for  the  proclamation  of  the  corona- 
tion of  George  the  Fourth.  The  old  wives  said  at  the  time 
that  the  boys  made  the  prettiest  part  of  the  show. 

Charles  Tennyson — Charles  Turner  he  was  afterwards 
called,  for  he  took  the  name  with  a  property  which  he  in- 
herited—was Alfred's  special  friend  and  brother.  In  his 
own  most  sweet  degree,  Charles  Tennyson  too  was  a  true 
poet.  Who  that  has  ever  read  his  sonnets  will  cease  to  love 
them  ?  His  brother  loves  and  quotes  them  with  affection. 
Coleridge  loved  them  ;  James  Spedding,  wise  critic,  life-long 
friend,  read  them  with  unaltered  delight  from  his  youth  to 
his  much-honored  age.  In  an  introductory  essay  to  a  volume 
of  the  collected  sonnets,  published  after  Charles  Turner's 
death,  Mr.  Spedding  quotes  the  picture  of  a  summer's  day- 
break : 

"  But  one  sole  star,  none  other  anywhere  ; 
A  wild-rose  odour  from  the  fields  was  borne  ; 
The  lark's  mysterious  joy  filled  earth  and  air, 
And  from  the  wind's  top  met  the  hunter's  horn  ; 
The  aspen  trembled  wildly;   and  the  morn 
Breathed  up  in  rosy  clouds  divinely  fair." 
8 


MRS.   TENNYSON 
After  the  painting  at  Aldworth  by  G.  F.  Watts,  R.A. 


Charles  Tennyson  was  in  looks  not  unlike  his  younger 
brother.  He  was  stately,  too,  though  shorter  in  stature, 
gentle,  spiritual,  very  noble,  simple.  I  once  saw  him  kneel- 
ing in  a  church,  and  only  once  again.  He  was  like  some- 
thing out  of  some  other  world,  more  holy,  more  silent  than 
that  in  which  most  of  us  are  living ;  there  is  a  picture  in 
the  National  Gallery  of  St.  Jerome  which  always  recalls 
Jiim  to  me.  The  sons  must  have  inherited  their  poetic  gifts 
from  their  father.  He  was  the  Rev.  George  Clayton  Ten- 
nyson, LL.D.,  a  tall,  striking,  and  impressive  man,  full  of 
accomplishments  and  parts,  a  strong  nature,  high-souled, 
high -tempered.  He  was  the  head  of  the  old  family;  but 
his  own  elder-brother  share  of  its  good  things  had  passed 
by  will  into  the  hands  of  another  branch,  which  is  still 
represented  by  the  Tennysons  d'Eyncourt.  Perhaps  be- 
fore he  died  he  may  have  realized  that  to  one  of  his  had 
come  possessions  greater  than  any  ever  yet  entailed  by 
lawyer's  deeds — an  inheritance,  a  priceless  Benjamin's  por- 
tion, not  to  be  measured  or  defined. 


II 


ALFRED  TENNYSON,  as  he  grew  up  towards  manhood, 
found  other  and  stronger  inspirations  than  Thomson's  gen- 
tle Seasons.  Byron's  spell  had  fallen  on  his  generation,  and 
for  a  boy  of  genius  it  must  have  been  absolute  and  overmas- 
tering. Tennyson  was  soon  to  find  his  own  voice,  but  mean- 
while he  began  to  write  like  Byron.  He  produced  poems 
and  verses  in  endless  abundance :  trying  his  wings,  as  peo- 
ple say,  before  starting  on  his  own  strong  flight.  One  day 
the  news  came  to  the  village — the  dire  news  which  spread 


across  the  land,  filling  men's  hearts  with  consternation — 
that  Byron  was  dead.  Alfred  was  then  a  boy  about  fifteen. 

"  Byron  was  dead !  I  thought  the  whole  world  was  at  an 
end,"  he  once  said,  speaking  of  these  by-gone  days.  "  I 
thought  everything  was  over  and  finished  for  every  one — 
that  nothing  else  mattered.  I  remember  I  walked  out 
alone,  and  carved  '  Byron  is  dead'  into  the  sandstone." 

I  have  spoken  of  Tennyson  from  the  account  of  an  old 
friend,  whose  recollections  go  back  to  those  days,  which 
seem  perhaps  more  distant  to  us  than  others  of  earlier  date 
and  later  fashion.  Mrs.  Tennyson,  the  mother  of  the  family, 
so  this  same  friend  tells  me,  was  a  sweet  and  gentle  and 
most  imaginative  woman ,  so  kind-hearted  that  it  had  pass- 
ed into  a  proverb,  and  the  wicked  inhabitants  of  a  neigh- 
boring village  used  to  bring  their  dogs  to  her  windows  and 
beat  them  in  order  to  be  bribed  to  leave  off  by  the  gentle 
lady,  or  to  make  advantageous  bargains  by  selling  her  the 
worthless  curs.  She  was  intensely,  fervently  religious,  as  a 
poet's  mother  should  be.  After  her  husband's  'death  (he 
had  added  to  the  rectory,  and  made  it  suitable  for  his  large 
family)  she  still  lived  on  at  Somersby  with  her  children  and 
their  friends.  The  daughters  were  growing  up,  the  elder 
sons  were  going  to  college.  Frederick,  the  eldest,  went  first 
to  Trinity,  Cambridge,  and  his  brothers  followed  him  there 
in  turn.  Life  was  opening  for  them,  they  were  seeing  new 
aspects  and  places,  making  new  friends,  and  bringing  them 
home  to  their  Lincolnshire  rectory.  In  Memoriam  gives 
many  a  glimpse  of  the  pld  home,  of  which  the  echoes  still 
reach  us  across  half  a  century. 

' '  O  sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares, 
The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew, 
The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew, 
And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears  ! 


O  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 

About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 

To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 
The  Tuscan  poets  on  the  lawn : 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 
A  guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung", 
Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  and  flung 

A  ballad  to  the  brightening  moon." 

Dean  Garden  was  one  of  those  guests  here  spoken  ofr 
who  with  Arthur  Hallam,  the  reader  of  the  Tuscan  poets, 
and  James  Spedding  and  others,  used  to  gather  upon  the 
lawn  at  Somersby — the  young  men  and  women  in  the  light 
of  their  youth  and  high  spirits,  the  widowed  mother  leading 
her  quiet  life  within  the  rectory  walls.  Was  it  not  a  happy 
sister  herself  who  in  after-days  once  described  how,  on  a 
lovely  summer  night,  they  had  all  sat  up  so  late  talking  in 
the  starlight  that  the  dawn  came  shining  unawares ;  but  the 
young  men,  instead  of  going  to  bed,  then  and  there  set  off 
for  a  long  walk  across  the  hills  in  the  sunrise. 

"And  suck'd  from  out  the  distant  gloom 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore,* 
And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 

And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 

Rock'd  the  full-foliaged  elms,  and  swung 
The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 

The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said 

'The  dawn,  the  dawn,'  and  died  away; 
And  East  and  West,  without  a  breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and  death, 
To  broaden  into  boundless  day." 

*  I  am  told  that  the  sycamore  has  been  cut  down,  and  the  lawn  is  altered  to  another 
shape. 

13 


Ill 


ONE  thing  which  cannot  fail  to  strike  us  when  we  are 
looking  over  the  records  of  these  earlier  days  is  the  remark- 
able influence  which  Alfred  Tennyson  seems  to  have  had 
from  the  very  first  upon  his  contemporaries,  even  before  his 
genius  had  been  recognized  by  the  rest  of  the  world.  Not 
only  those  of  his  own  generation,  but  his  elders  and  masters 
seem  to  have  felt  something  of  this.  I  remember  hearing 
one  of  Tennyson's  oldest  friends,  Dr.  Thompson,  the  late 
Master  of  Trinity,  say  that  "  Whewell,  who  was  a  man  him- 
self, and  who  knew  a  man  when  he  saw  him,''  used  to  pass 
over  in  Alfred  Tennyson  certain  informalities  and  forget- 
fulness  of  combinations  as  to  gowns,  and  places,  and  times, 
which  in  another  he  would  never  have  overlooked. 

Whewell  ruled  a  noble  generation — a  race  of  men  born 
in  the  beginning  of  the  century,  whose  praise  and  loyal 
friendship  were  indeed  worth  having,  and  whose  good  opin- 
ion Tennyson  himself  may  have  been  proud  to  possess. 
Wise,  sincere,  and  witty,  these  contemporaries  spoke  with  au- 
thority, with  the  moderation  of  conscious  strength.  Those 
of  this  race  that  I  have  known  in  later  days — for  they  were 
many  of  them  my  father's  friends  also — have  all  been  men 
of  unmistakable  stamp,  of  great  culture,  of  a  certain  digni- 
fied bearing,  and  of  independence  of  mind  and  of  nature. 

Most  of  them  have  succeeded  in  life  as  men  do  who  are 
possessed  of  intellect  and  high  character.  Some  have  not 
made  the  less  mark  upon  their  time  because  their  names  are 
less  widely  known  ;  but  each  name  is  a  memorable  chapter 


TENNYSON  .S   CHILDREN 
After  the  painting  at  Aldworth  by  G.  1-".  Watts,  R.A. 

in  life  to  one  and  another  of  us  who  remember  them.  One 
of  those,  old  friends,  who  also  loved  my  father,  and  whom 
he  loved,  who  has  himself  passed  away ;  one  who  saw  life 
with  his  own  eyes,  and  spoke  with  his  own  words  has  de- 
scribed Tennyson  in  his  youth,  in  a  fragment  which  is  a 
remembrance,  a  sort  of  waking  dream,  of  some  by-gone  days 


and  talks.  How  many  of  us  might  have  been  glad  to  listen 
to  our  poet,  and  to  the  poet  who  has  made  the  philosophy 
of  Omar  Kh&yam  known  to  the  world,  as  they  discoursed 
together ;  of  life,  of  boyish  memories,  of  books,  and  again 
more  books;  of  chivalry  —  mainly  but  another  name  for 
youth — of  a  possible  old  age,  so  thoroughly  seasoned  with 
its  spirit  that  all  the  experience  of  the  world  should  serve 
not  to  freeze  but  to  direct  the  genial  current  of  the  soul ! 
and  who  that  has  known  them  both  will  not  recognize  the 
truth  of  this  description  of  Alfred  in  early  days  ? 

"  A  man  at  all  points,  of  grand  proportion  and  feature,  significant  of 
that  inward  chivalry  becoming  his  ancient  and  honorable  race  ;  when 
himself  a  '  Yonge  Squire,'  like  him  in  Chaucer,  '  of  grete  strength,'  that 
could  hurl  the  crowbar  farther  than  any  of  the  neighboring  clowns,  whose 
humors,  as  well  as  of  their  betters — knight,  squire,  landlord,  and  lieu- 
tenant— he  took  quiet  note  of,  like  Chaucer  himself ;  like  Wordsworth  on 
the  mountain,  he  too  when  a  lad  abroad  on  the  world,  sometimes  of  a 
night  with  the  shepherd,  watching  not  only  the  flock  on  the  greensward, 
but  also 

'  the  fleecy  star  that  bears 
Andromeda  far  off  Atlantic  seas,' 

along  with  those  other  Zodiacal  constellations  which  Aries,  I  think,  leads 
over  the  field  of  heaven." 

Arthur  Hallam  has  also  written  of  him  in  some  lines  to  R. 
J.  Tennant  of 

"a  friend,  a  rare  one, 
A  noble  being  full  of  clearest  insight, 

.  .  .  whose  fame 

Is  couching  now  with  pantherized  intent, 
As  who  shall  say,  I'll  spring  to  him  anon, 
And  have  him  for  my  own." 

All  these  men  could  understand  each  other,  although  they 
had  not  then  told  the  world  their  secrets.  Poets,  critics, 


men  of  learning  —  such  names  as  Trench  and  Monckton 
Milnes,  George  Stovin  Venables,  the  Lushingtons  and 
Kinglake,  need  no  comment ;  many  more  there  are,  and 
deans  and  canons — a  band  of  youthful  friends  in  those  days 
meeting  to  hold  debate 

"  on  mind  and  art, 

And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 
And  all  the  framework  of  the  land  ; 
When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 

But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string  ; 

And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring, 
And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there  ; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he, 
Would  cleave  the  mark." 

The  lines  to  J.  S.  were  written  to  one  of  these  earlier 
associates. 

' '  And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould." 

It  was  the  prophecy  of  a  whole  lifetime.  There  were  but  few 
signs  of  age  in  James  Spedding's  looks,  none  in  his  charm- 
ing companionship,  when  the  accident  befell  him  which  took 
him  away  from  those  who  loved  him.  To  another  old  com- 
panion, the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield,  is  dedicated  that  sonnet 
which  flows  like  an  echo  of  Cambridge  chimes  on  a  Sabbath 
morning. 

B  I/ 


IV 


IT  is  in  this  sonnet  to  W.  H.  Brookfield  that  Tennyson 
writes  of  Arthur  Hallam :  "  Him  the  lost  light  of  those  dawn- 
golden  days." 

Arthur  Hallam  was  the  same  age  as  my  own  father,  and 
born  in  1811.  When  he  died  he  was  but  twenty-three; 
but  he  had  lived  long  enough  to  show  what  his  life  might 
have  been. 

In  the  preface  to  a  little  volume  of  his  collected  poems 
and  essays,  published  some  time  after  his  death,  there  is  a 
pathetic  introduction.  "  He  seemed  to  tread  the  earth  as 
a  spirit  from  some  better  world,"  writes  his  father;  and  a 
correspondent,  who  is,  as  I  have  been  told,  Arthur  Hallam's 
and  Tennyson's  common  friend,  Mr.  Gladstone,  says,  with 
deep  feeling :  "It  has  pleased  God  that  in  his  death,  as  well 
as  in  his  life  and  nature,  he  should  be  marked  beyond 
ordinary  men.  When  much  time  has  elapsed,  when  most 
bereavements  will  be  forgotten,  he  will  still  be  remembered, 
and  his  place,  I  fear,  will  be  felt  to  be  still  vacant ;  singularly 
as  his  mind  was  calculated  by  its  native  tendencies  to  work 
powerfully  and  for  good,  in  an  age  full  of  import  to  the 
nature  and  destinies  of  man." 

How  completely  these  words  have  been  carried  out  must 
strike  us  all  now.  The  father  lived  to  see  the  young  man's 
unconscious  influence  working  through  his  friend's  genius, 
and  reaching  whole  generations  unborn.  A  lady,  speaking 
of  Arthur  Hallam  after  his  death,  said  to  Tennyson,  "I  think 
he  was  perfect."  "  And  so  he  was,"  said  Lord  Tennyson, 

18 


TO^-y&'ft  "^<?r^f< 

^i?^M^% 


"as  near  perfection  as  a  mortal  man  can  be."  Arthur 
Hallam  was  a  man  of  remarkable  intellect.  He  could  take 
in  the  most  difficult  and  abstruse  ideas  with  an  extraordinary 
rapidity  and  insight.  On  one  occasion  he  began  to  work 
one  afternoon,  and  mastered  a  difficult  book  of  Descartes  at 
a  single  sitting.  In  the  preface  to  the  Memorials  Mr.  Hallam 
speaks  of  this  peculiar  clearness  of  perception  and  facility 
for  acquiring  knowledge ;  but,  above  all,  the  father  dwells 
on  his  son's  undeviating  sweetness  of  disposition  and  ad- 
herence to  his  sense  of  what  was  right.  In  the  Quarterlies 
and  Reviews  of  the  time,  his  opinion  is  quoted  here  and 
there  with  a  respect  which  shows  in  what  esteem  it  was 
already  held. 

At  the  time  when  Arthur  Hallam  died  he  was  engaged  to 
be  married  to  a  sister  of  the  poet's.  She  was  scarcely  seven- 
teen at  the  time.  One  of  the  sonnets  addressed  by  Arthur 
Hallam  to  his  betrothed  was  written  when  he  began  to 
teach  her  Italian  : 

"  Lady,  I  bid  thee  to  a  sunny  dome, 

Ringing  with  echoes  of  Italian  song  ; 

Henceforth  to  thee  these  magic  halls  belong, 
And  all  the  pleasant  place  is  like  a  home. 
Hark,  on  the  right,  with  full  piano  tone, 

Old  Dante's  voice  encircles  all  the  air ; 

Hark,  yet  again,  like  flute-tones  mingling  rare 
Comes  the  keen  sweetness  of  Petrarca's  moan. 
Pass  thou  the  lintel  freely  ;  without  fear 

Feast  on  the  music.     I  do  better  know  thee 

Than  to  suspect  this  pleasure  thou  dost  owe  me 
Will  wrong  thy  gentle  spirit,  or  make  less  dear 

That  element  whence  thou  must  draw  thy  life — 

An  English  maiden  and  an  English  wife." 

As  we  read  the  pages  of  this  little  book  we  come  upon 
more  than  one  happy  moment  saved  out  of  the  past,  hours 


of  delight  and  peaceful  friendship,  saddened  by  no  fore- 
boding, and  complete  in  themselves. 

"Alfred,  I  would  that  you  beheld  me  now, 
Sitting  beneath  an  ivied,  mossy  wall. 

.  .  .  Above  my  head 
Dilates  immeasurable  a  wild  of  leaves, 
Seeming  received  into  the  blue  expanse 
That  vaults  the  summer  noon." 

There  is  something  touching  in  the  tranquil  ring  of  the 
voice  calling  out  in  the  summer  noontide  with  all  a  young 
man's  expansion. 

It  seemed  to  be  but  the  beginning  of  a  beautiful  happy 
life,  when  suddenly  the  end  came.  Arthur  Hallam  was 
travelling  with  his  father  in  Austria  when  he  died  very  sud- 
denly, with  scarce  a  warning  sign  of  illness.  Mr.  Hallam 
had  come  home  and  found  his  son,  as  he  supposed,  sleep- 
ing upon  a  couch ;  but  it  was  death,  not  sleep.  "  Those 
whose  eyes  must  long  be  dim  with  tears  " — so  writes  the 
heart-stricken  father — "brought  him  home  to  rest  among 
his  kindred  and  in  his  own  country."  They  chose  his  rest- 
ing-place in  a  tranquil  spot  on  a  lone  hill  that  overhangs  the 
Bristol  Channel.  He  was  buried  in  the  chancel  of  Cleve- 
don  Church,  in  Somerset,  by  Clevedon  Court,  which  had 
been  the  early  home  of  his  mother,  an  Elton  by  birth. 

In  all  England  there  is  not  a  sweeter  place  than  the 
sunny  old  Court  upon  the  hill,  with  its  wide  prospects  and 
grassy  terraces,  where  Arthur  Hallam  must  have  played  in 
his  childhood,  whence  others  of  his  kindred,  touched  with 
his  own  bright  and  beautiful  spirit,  have  come  forth. 

When  Mr.  Hallam,  after  a  life  of  repeated  sorrows,  at  last 
went  to  his  rest  with  his  wife  and  his  children,  it  was  Alfred 
Tennyson  who  wrote  his  epitaph,  which  may  still  be  read  in 
the  chancel  of  the  old  Clevedon  Church. 


ONCE  in  their  early  youth  we  hear  of  the  two  friends, 
Tennyson  and  Hallam,  travelling  in  the  Pyrenees.  This 
was  at  the  time  of  the  war  of  Spanish  independence,  when 
many  generous  young  men  went  over  with  funds  and  good 
energies  to  help  the  cause  of  liberty.  These  two  were  tak- 
ing money  and  letters  written  in  invisible  ink  to  certain 
conspirators  who  were  then  revolting  against  the  intolerable 
tyranny  of  Ferdinand,  and  who  were  chiefly  hiding  in  the 
Pyrenees.  The  young  men  met,  among  others,  a  Senor 
Ojeda,  who  confided  to  Tennyson  his  intentions,  which  were 
to  couper  la  gorge  a  tous  les  cures.  Sefior  Ojeda  could  not  talk 
English  or  fully  explain  all  his  aspirations.  "Jlfais  vous  co?i- 
naissez  mon  cceur"  said  he,  effusively ;  and  a  pretty  black 
one  it  is,  thought  the  poet.  I  have  heard  Tennyson  described 
in  those  days  as  "straight  and  with  a  broad  breast,"  and 
when  he  had  crossed  over  from  the  Continent  and  was  com- 
ing back,  walking  through  Wales,  he  went  one  day  into  a 
little  way-side  inn,  where  an  old  man  sat  by  the  fire,  who 
looked  up,  and  asked  many  questions.  "Are  you  from  the 
army  ?  Not  from  the  army  ?  Then  where  do  you  come 
from  ?"  said  the  old  man.  "  I  am  just  come  from  the  Pyre- 
nees," said  Alfred.  "Ah,  I  knew  there  was  a  something," 
said  the  wise  old  man. 

John  Kemble  was  among  those  who  had  gone  over  to 
Spain,  and  one  day  a  rumor  came  to  distant  Somersby  that 
he  was  to  be  tried  for  his  life  by  the  Spanish  authorities.  No 
one  else  knew  much  about  him  except  Alfred  Tennyson,  who 


THE   MEETING   OF   THE   SEVERN    AND   WYE. 


started  before  dawn  to  drive  across  the  country  in  search  of 
some  person  of  authority  who  knew  the  Consul  at  Cadiz,  and 
who  could  send  letters  of  protection  to  the  poor  prisoner. 

It  was  a  false  alarm.     John  Kemble  came  home  to  make 
a  name  for  himself  in  other  fields.     Meanwhile  Alfred  Ten- 


nyson's  own  reputation  was  growing,  and  when  the  first  two 
volumes  of  his  collected  poems  were  published  in  1842,  fol- 
lowed by  The  Princess,  in  1847,  his  fame  spread  throughout 
the  land. 

Some  of  the  reviews  were  violent  and  antagonistic  at  first. 
One  especially  had  tasted  blood,  and  the  "  Hang,  draw,  and 
Quarterly"  as  it  has  been  called,  of  those  days,  having  late- 
ly cut  up  Endymion,  now  proceeded  to  demolish  Tennyson. 

But  this  was  a  passing  phase.  It  is  curious  to  note  the 
sudden  change  in  the  tone  of  the  criticisms  —  the  absolute 
surrender  of  these  knights  of  the  pen  to  the  irresistible  and 
brilliant  advance  of  the  unknown  and  visored  warrior.  The 
visor  is  raised  now,  the  face  is  familiar  to  us  all,  and  the 
arms,  though  tested  in  a  hundred  fights,  are  shining  and  un- 
conquered  still. 

William  Howitt,  whom  we  have  already  quoted,  has  writ- 
ten an  article  upon  the  Tennyson  of  these  earlier  days.  It 
is  fanciful,  suggestive,  full  of  interest,  with  a  gentle  myste- 
rious play  and  tender  appreciation.  Speaking  of  the  poet 
himself,  he  asks,  with  the  rest  of  the  world  at  that  time : 
"  You  may  hear  his  voice,  but  where  is  the  man  ?  He  is 
wandering  in  some  dream-land,  beneath  the  shade  of  old 
and  charmed  forests,  by  far-off  shores,  where 

'  all  night 

The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from  the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white ; 

by  the  old  mill-dam,  thinking  of  the  merry  miller  and  his 
pretty  daughter ;  or  wandering  over  the  open  wolds  where 

'Norland  whirlwinds  blow.' 

From  all  these  places — from  the  silent  corridor  of  an  an- 
cient convent,  from  some  shrine  where  a  devoted  knight  re- 
cites his  vows,  from  the  drear  monotony  of  '  the  moated 


grange,'  or  the  forest  beneath  the  'talking  oak' — comes  the 
voice  of  Tennyson,  rich,  dreamy,  passionate,  yet  not  impa- 
tient, musical  with  the  airs  of  chivalrous  ages,  yet  mingling 
in  his  song  the  theme  and  the  spirit  of  those  that  are  yet 
to  come."  .  .  . 

This  article  was  written  many  years  ago,  when  but  the 
first  chords  had  sounded,  before  the  glorious  Muse,  passing 
beyond  her  morning  joy,  had  met  with  the  sorrow  of  life. 
But  it  is  well  that  as  we  travel  on  through  later,  sadder 
scenes  we  should  still  carry  in  our  hearts  this  romantic 
music.  One  must  be  English  born,  I  think,  to  know  how 
English  is  the  spell  which  this  great  enchanter  casts  over 
us;  the  very  spirit  of  the  land  falls  upon  us  as  the  visions 
he  evokes  come  closing  round.  Whether  it  is  the  moated 
grange  he  shows  us,  or  Locksley  Hall  that  in  the  dis- 
tance overlooks  the  sandy  tracts,  or  Dora  standing  in  the 
corn,  or  the  sight  of  the  brimming  wave  that  swings 
through  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill,  it  is  all  home  in  its 
broadest,  sweetest  aspect. 

It  would  not  be  easy  for  a  generation  that  has  grown  up 
to  the  music  of  Tennyson,  that  has  in  a  manner  beaten 
time  to  it  with  the  pulse  of  its  life,  to  imagine  what  the 
world  would  be  without  it.  Even  the  most  original  among 
us  must  needs  think  of  things  more  or  less  in  the  shape  in 
which  they  come  before  us.  The  mystery  of  the  charm  of 
words  is  as  great  as  that  by  which  a  wonder  of  natural 
beauty  comes  around  us,  and  lays  hold  of  our  imagination. 
It  may  be  fancy,  but  I  for  one  feel  as  if  summer-time  could 
scarcely  be  summer  without  the  song  of  the  familiar  green 

books. 

26 


VI 


IN  MEMORIAM,  with  music  in  its  cantos,  belonging  to  the 
school  of  all  men's  sad  hearts,  rings  the  awful  De  Profundis 
of  death,  faced  and  realized  as  far  as  may  be  by  a  human 
soul.  It  came  striking  suddenly  into  all  the  sweet  ideal 
beauty  and  lovely  wealth  which  had  gone  before,  with  a 
revelation  of  that  secret  of  life  which  is  told  to  each  of  us 
in  turn  by  the  sorrow  of  its  own  soul.  Nothing  can  be 
more  simple  than  the  form  of  the  poem  as  it  flows. 

"Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that  dip 
Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away," 

as  the  poet  says  himself,  but  it  is  something  else  besides — 
something  which  has  given  words  and  ease  to  many  of 
those  who  in  their  lonely  frozen  grief  perhaps  feel  that 
they  are  no  longer  quite  alone,  when  such  a  voice  as  this 
can  reach  them  : 

"Peace;   come  away:   the  song  of  woe 
Is  after  all  an  earthly  song  : 
Peace  ;   come  away  :  we  do  him  wrong 
To  sing  so  wildly  :  let  us  go. " 

And  as  the  cry  passes  away,  come  signs  of  peace  and  dawn- 
ing light.: 

"Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast; 

Nor  harp  be  touch'd,  nor  flute  be  blown ; 
No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 
What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 
29 


"Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  summer  in  the  seed  ; 
Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and  lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good." 

And  the  teacher  who  can  read  the  great  book  of  nature  in- 
terprets for  us  as  he  turns  the  page. 

With  In  Memoriam,  which  was  not  published  till  1850, 
Alfred  Tennyson's  fame  was  firmly  established ;   and  when 


BURLEIGH    HOUSE,    BY   STAMFORD   TOWN 

Wordsworth  died  (on  Shakespeare's  day  in  that  same  year) 
its  author  was  appointed  by  the  Queen  Poet  Laureate. 
There  is  a  story*  that  at  the  time  Sir  Robert  Peel  was  con- 
sulted he  had  never  read  any  Tennyson,  but  he  read  "Ulys- 
ses "  and  warmed  up,  and  acknowledged  the  right  of  this 
new-come  poet  to  be  England's  Laureate. 

The  home  at  Somersby  was  broken  up  by  this  time,  by 

*  See  Lord  Houghton's  Memoirs. 
30 


marriages  and  other  family  events.  Alfred  Tennyson  had 
come  to  live  in  London.  He  was  poor;  he  had  in  turn  to 
meet  that  struggle  with  wholesome  poverty  which  brings  the 
vagueness  of  genius  into  contact  with  reality,  and  teaches, 
better,  perhaps,  than  any  other  science,  the  patience,  the  for- 
bearance, and  knowledge  of  life  which  belong  to  it. 

The  Princess,  with  all  her  lovely  court  and  glowing  har- 
monies, had  been  born  in  London,  among  the  fogs  and 
smuts  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  although,  like  all  \vorks  of  true  art, 
this  poem  must  have  grown  by  degrees  in  other  times  and 
places  as  the  poet  came  and  went,  free,  unshackled,  medi- 
tating, inditing.  He  says  that  "  Tears,  Idle  Tears,"  was  sug- 
gested by  Tintern  Abbey :  but  who  shall  define  by  what 
mysterious  wonder  of  beauty  and  regret,  by  what  sense  of 
the  "  transient  with  the  abiding  ?" 

In  Memoriam  was  followed  by  the  first  part  of  the  Idylls, 
and  the  record  of  the  court  King  Arthur  held  at  Camelot, 
and  at  "old  Caerleon  upon  Usk"  on  that  eventful  Whitsun- 
tide when  Prince  Geraint  came  quickly  flashing  through  the 
shallow  ford  to  the  little  knoll,  where  the  queen  stood  with 
her  maiden,  and 

.  .  .  "  listen'd  for  the  distant  hunt, 
And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall." 

If  In  Memoriam  is  the  record  of  a  human  soul,  the  Idylls 
mean  the  history,  not  of  one  man  or  of  one  generation,  but 
of  a  whole  cycle,  of  the  faith  of  a  nation  failing  and  falling 
away  into  darkness.  The  first  "  Idyll "  and  the  last,  I  have 
heard  Lord  Tennyson  say,  are  intentionally  more  archaic 
than  the  others.  "  The  whole  is  the  dream  of  man  coming 
into  practical  life,  and  ruined  by  one  sin."  Birth  is  a  mys- 
tery, and  death  is  a  mystery,  and  in  the  midst  lies  the  table- 
land of  life,  and  its  struggle  and  performance. 

The  poet  once  told  us  that  the  song  of  the  knights  march- 


ing  past  the  King  at  the  marriage  of  Arthur  was  made  one 
spring  afternoon  on  Clapham  Common  as  he  walked  along. 

"Blow  trumpet,  for  the  world  is  white  with  May; 
Blow  trumpet,  the  long  night  hath  roll'd  away! 
Blow  through  the  living  world — 'Let  the  King  reign.'" 

So  sang  the  young  knights  in  the  first  bright  days  of  early 
chivalry. 

"Clang  battle-axe,  and  clash  brand!     Let  the  King  reign. 
The  King  will  follow  Christ,  and  we  the  King." 

And  then  when  the  doom  of  evil  spread,  bringing  not  sor- 
row alone,  but  destruction  in  its  train,  not  death  only,  but 
hopelessness  and  consternation,  the  song  is  finally  changed 
into  an  echo  of  strange  woe ;  we  hear  no  shout  of  triumph, 
but  the  dim  shocks  of  battle, 

' '  the  crash 

Of  battle-axe  on  shatter'd  helms,  and  shrieks 
After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling  down 
Look'd  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the  mist." 

All  is  over  with  the  fair  court ;  Guinevere's  golden  head 
is  low ;  she  has  fled  to  Almesbury — 

"Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering  waste  and  weald, 
And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  and  weald 
Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard  them  moan : 
And  in  herself  she  moan'd,  '  Too  late,  too  late  !' 
Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the  morn, 
A  blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying  high, 
Croak'd,  and  she  thought,  'He  spies  a  field  of  death.'" 

And  finally  comes  the  conclusion,  and  the  "  Passing  of 
Arthur,"  and  he  vanishes  as  he  came,  in  mystery,  silently 
floating  away  upon  the  barge  towards  the  East,  whence  all 
religions  are  said  to  come. 


As  the  writer  notes  down  these  various  fragments  of  re- 
membrance, and  compiles  this  sketch  of  present  things,  she 
cannot  but  feel  how  much  of  the  past  it  all  means  to 
her,  and  how  very  much  her  own  feeling  is  an  inheritance 
which  has  gathered  interest  during  a  lifetime,  so  that  the 
chief  claim  of  her  words  to  be  regarded  is  that  they  are 
those  of  an  old  friend.  Her  father's  warmth  of  admiration 
comes  back  vividly  as  she  writes,  all  his  pleasure  when  he 
secured  "Tithonus"  for  one  of  the  early  numbers  of  the 
'  Cornhill  Magazine^  his  immense  and  outspoken  admiration 
for  the  Idylls  of  the  King. 

I  have  heard  them  all  speak  of  these  London  days  when 
Alfred  Tennyson  lived  in  poverty  with  his  friends  and  his 
golden  dreams.  He  lived  in  the  Temple,  at  58  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields,  and  elsewhere. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Carlyle  introduced  Sir  John 
Simeon  to  Tennyson  one  night  at  Bath  House,  and  made 
the  often-quoted  speech,  "There  he  sits  upon  a  dung-heap 
surrounded  by  innumerable  dead  dogs  ;"  by  which  dead 
dogs  he  meant  "  CEnone  "  and  other  Greek  versions  and 
adaptations.  He  had  said  the  same  thing  of  Landor  and 
his  Hellenics.  "  I  was  told  of  this,"  said  Lord  Tennyson, 
"and  some  time  afterwards  I  repeated  it  to  Carlyle:  'I'm 
told  that  is  what  you  say  of  me.'  He  gave  a  kind  of  guf- 
faw. '  Eh,  that  wasn't  a  very  luminous  description  of  you,' 
he  answered." 

The  story  is  well  worth  retelling,  so  completely  does  it 
illustrate  the  grim  humor  and  unaffected  candor  of  a  dys- 
peptic mati  of  genius,  who  flung  words  and  epithets  without 
malice,  who  neither  realized  the  pain  his  chance  sallies 
might  give,  nor  the  indelible  flash  which  branded  them 
upon  people's  memories. 

The  world  has  pointed  its  moral  finger  of  late  at  the  old 
man  in  his  great  old  age,  accusing  himself  in  the  face  of  all, 

35 


and  confessing  the  overpowering  irritations  which  the  suf- 
fering of  a  lifetime  had  laid  upon  him  and  upon  her  he 
loved.  That  old  caustic  man  of  deepest  feeling,  with  an  ill 
temper  and  a  tender  heart  and  a  racking  imagination,  speak- 
ing from  the  grave,  and  bearing  unto  it  that  cross  of  pas- 
sionate remorse  which  few  among  us  dare  to  face,  seems  to 
some  of  us  now  a  figure  nobler  and  truer,  a  teacher  greater 
far,  than  in  the  days  when  his  pain  and  love  and  remorse 
were  still  hidden  from  us  all. 

Carlyle  and  Mr.  Fitzgerald  used  to  be  often  with  Tenny- 
son at  that  time.  They  used  to  dine  together  at  the  "  Cock  " 
tavern  in  the  Strand  among  other  places ;  sometimes  Ten- 
nyson and  Carlyle  took  long,  solitary  walks  into  the  night. 

Here  is  Carlyle's  description  of  the  poet,  written  to  Emer- 
so'n  in  America : 

"  Tennyson  came  in  to  us  on  Sunday  evening,  a  truly  in- 
teresting Son  of  Earth  and  Son  of  Heaven.  .  .  .  One  of  the 
finest-looking  men  in  the  world.  His  voice  is  musical,  me- 
tallic— fit  for  loud  laughter  and  piercing  wail,  and  all  that 
may  be  between ;  speech  and  speculation  free  and  plente- 
ous. I  do  not  meet  in  these  late  decades  such  company 
over  a  pipe.  ...  A  true  human  soul  or  some  authentic  ap- 
proximation thereto,  to  whom  your  soul  can  say,  Brother ;  a 
man  solitary  and  sad  as  certain  men  are,  dwelling  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  gloom — carrying  a  bit  of  chaos  about  him,  in 
short,  which  he  is  manufacturing  into  cosmos 7"  I  have  vent- 
ured to  put  the  italics ;  had  I  letters  of  gold  to  write  with  I 
would  set  them  to  the  stately  words. 

The  other  day  a  lady  was  describing  a  by-gone  feast  giv- 
en about  this  time  by  the  poet  to  Lady  Duff  Gordon,  and 
to  another  young  and  beautiful  lady,  a  niece  of  Mr.  Hallam's. 
Harry  Hallam,  his  younger  son,  was  also  asked.  Lord  Ten- 
nyson, in  his  hospitality,  had  sent  for  a  carpenter  to  change 
the  whole  furniture  of  his  bedroom  in  order  to  prepare  a 

36 


proper  drawing-room  for  the  ladies.  Mr.  Brookrield,  com- 
ing in,  was  in  time  to  suggest  some  compromise,  to  which 
the  host  reluctantly  agreed.  One  can  imagine  that  it  was 
a  delightful  feast,  but  indeed  it  is  always  a  feast-day  when 
one  breaks  bread  with  those  one  loves,  and  the  writer  is 
glad  to  think  that  she,  too,  has  been  among  those  to  sit  at 
the  kind  board  where  the  salt  has  not  lost  its  savor  in  the 
years  that  have  passed,  and  where  the  guests  can  say  their 
grace  not  for  bread  and  wine  alone.  May  she  add  that 
the  first  occasion  of  her  having  the  honor  of  breaking  bread 
in  company  with  Lord  Tennyson  was  in  her  father's  house, 
when  she  was  propped  up  in  a  tall  chair  between  her 
parents  ? 


VII 


SOME  of  the  writer's  earliest  recollections  are  of  days 
now  long  gone  by,  when  many  of  these  young  men  of  whom 
she  has  been  speaking,  grown  to  be  middle-aged,  used  to 
come  from  time  to  time  to  her  father's  house,  and  smoke 
with  him,  and  talk  and  laugh  quietly,  taking  life  seriously, 
but  humorously  too,  with  a  certain  loyalty  to  others  and 
self-respect  which  was  their  characteristic.  They  were 
somewhat  melancholy  men  at  soul;  but  for  that  very  rea- 
son, perhaps,  the  humors  of  life  may  have  struck  them 
more  especially.  It  is  no  less  possible  that  our  children 
will  think  of  us  as  cheerful  folks  upon  the  whole,  with  no 
little  affectation  of  melancholy  and  all  the  graces. 

I  can  remember  on  one  occasion  through  a  cloud  of 
smoke  looking  across  a  darkening  room  at  the  noble,  grave 
head  of  the  Poet  Laureate.  He  was  sitting  with  my  father 
in  the  twilight  after  some  family  meal  in  the  old  house  in 


Kensington.  It  is  Lord  Tennyson  himself  who  has  re- 
minded me  how  upon  this  occasion,  while  my  father  was 
speaking,  my  little  sister  looked  up  suddenly  from  the  book 
over  which  she  had  been  absorbed,  saying,  in  her  sweet 
childish  voice,  "  Papa,  why  do  you  not  write  books  like 
Nicholas  Nicklebyl"  Then  again  I  seem  to  hear,  across 
that  same  familiar  table,  voices  without  shape  or  name, 
talking  and  telling  each  other  that  Lord  Tennyson  was  mar- 
ried— that  he  and  his  wife  had  been  met  walking  on  the 
terrace  at  Clevedon  Court ;  and  then  the  clouds  descend 
again,  except,  indeed,  that  I  still  see  my  father  riding  off 
on  his  brown  cob  to  the  Tennysons'  house  at  Twickenham 
(Chapel  House,  which  I  can  remember  with  its  oak  staircase 
and  the  carved  figure  of  a  bishop  blessing  the  passers-by) 
to  attend  the  christening  of  Hallam,  their  eldest  son.  In 
after -days  we  were  shown  the  old  ivy -grown  church  and 
the  rectory  at  Shiplake,  by  the  deep  bend  of  the  Thames, 
where  their  marriage  took  place,  after  long  years  of  faithful 
constancy. 

It  was  at  Somersby  that  Alfred  Tennyson  first  became 
acquainted  with  his  wife.  She  was  eldest  daughter  of 
Henry  Selwood,  the  last  but  one  of  a  family  of  country 
gentlemen  settled  in  Berkshire  in  the  time  of  Charles  I., 
and  before  that,  in  Saxon  times,  as  it  is  said,  more  impor- 
tant people  in  the  forest  of  their  name.  Her  mother  was  a 
sister  of  Sir  John  Franklin. 

Not  many  years  after  their  marriage  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tenny- 
son settled  at  Freshwater,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  There  is 
a  photograph  I  have  always  liked,  in  which  it  seems  to  me 
the  history  of  this  home  is  written,  as  such  histories  should 
be  written,  in  sunlight,  in  the  flashing  of  a  beam,  in  an 
instant,  and  forever.  It  was  taken  in  the  green  glade  at 
Farringford.  Hallam  and  Lionel  Tennyson  stand  on  either 
side  of  their  parents,  the  father  and  mother  and  children, 


hand  in  hand,  come  advancing  towards  us — who  does  not 
know  the  beautiful  lines  to  the  mother : 

"Dear,  near,  and  true — no  truer  Time  himself 
Can  prove  you,  though  he  make  you  evermore 
Dearer  and  nearer." 

And  though  years  have  passed  in  which  the  boys  with 
their  wind-blown  locks  grew  up  to  man's  estate,  so  that  it 
is  now  their  boys  who  are  in  turn  picking  the  daffodils  under 
the  Farringford  hedge,  yet  the  old  picture  remains,  in  which 
that  one  dear  remembered  figure,  so  early  carried  by  the 
flood  far  "  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Space,"  seems 
to  shine  brighter  than  the  rest. 


VIII 

ONE  autumn,  when  everything  seemed  happy  at  home, 
Mrs.  Cameron  took  me  with  her  to  Freshwater  for  a  few  de- 
lightful weeks,  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  lived  with  them 
all,  and  with  kind  Mrs.  Cameron,  in  the  ivy-grown  house 
near  the  gates  of  Farringford.  For  the  first  time  I  stayed 
in  the  island,  and  with  the  people  who  were  dwelling  there, 
and  walked  with  Tennyson  along  High  Down,  treading  the 
turf,  listening  to  his  talk,  while  the  gulls  came  sideways, 
flashing  their  white  breasts  against  the  edge  of  the  cliffs,  and 
the  poet's  cloak  flapped  time  to  the  gusts  of  the  west  wind. 

The  house  at  Farringford  itself  seemed  like  a  charmed 
palace,  with  green  walls  without,  and  speaking  walls  within. 
There  hung  Dante  with  his  solemn  nose  and  wreath ;  Italy 
gleamed  over  the  doorways ;  friends'  faces  lined  the  pas- 


sages ;  books  filled  the  shelves,  and  a  glow  of  crimson  was 
everywhere;  the  great  oriel  drawing-room  window  was  full 
of  green  and  golden  leaves,  of  the  sound  of  birds  and  of 
the  distant  sea. 

The  very  names  of  the  people  who  have  stood  upon  the 
lawn  at  Farringford  would  be  an  interesting  study  for  some 
future  biographer  :  Longfellow,  Maurice,  Kingsley,  the  Duke 
of  Argyll,  Locker,  Dean  Stanley,  the  Prince  Consort.  Good 
Garibaldi  once  planted  a  tree  there,  off  which  some  too  ar- 
dent republican  broke  a  branch  before  twenty-four  hours 
had  passed.  Here  came  Clough  in  the  last  year  of  his  life. 
Here  Mrs.  Cameron  fixed  her  lens,  marking  the  well-known 
faces  as  they  passed  :  Darwin  and  Henry  Taylor,  Watts  and 
Aubrey  de  Vere,  Lecky  and  Jowett,  and  a  score  of  others. 

I  first  knew  the  place  in  the  autumn,  but  perhaps  it  is 
even  more  beautiful  in  the  spring-time,  when  all  day  the 
lark  trills  high  overhead,  and  then  when  the  lark  has  flown 
out  of  hearing  the  thrushes  begin,  and  the  air  is  sweet  with 
scents  from  the  many  fragrant  shrubs.  The  woods  are  full 
of  anemones  and  primroses  ;  narcissus  grows  wild  in  the 
lower  fields ;  a  lovely  creamy  stream  of  flowers  flows  along 
the  lanes,  and  lies  hidden  in  the  levels  ;  hyacinth  pools  of 
blue  shine  in  the  woods ;  and  then  with  a  later  burst  of 
glory  comes  the  gorse,  lighting  up  the  country  round  about, 
and  blazing  on  the  beacon  hill.  The  little  sketch  here  given 
was  made  early  one  morning  by  Frederick  Walker,  who  had 
come  over  to  see  us  at  Freshwater.  The  beacon  hill  stands 
behind  Farringford.  If  you  cross  the  little  wood  of  night- 
ingales and  thrushes,  and  follow  the  lane  where  the  black- 
thorn hedges  shine  (lovely  dials  that  illuminate  to  show  the 
hour),  you  come  to  the  downs,  and  climbing  their  smooth 
steeps  you  reach  "High  Down,"  where  the  beacon-staff 
stands  firm  upon  the  mound.  Then,  following  the  line  of 
the  cliffs,  you  come  at  last  to  the  Needles,  and  may  look 


\\k 


TENNYSON    READING   ".MAUD" 
From  a  sketch  by  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  1855.    [See  Note  on  page  60.] 


down  upon  the  ridge  of  rocks  that  rise,  crisp,  sharp,  shin- 
ing, out  of  the  blue  wash  of  fierce,  delicious  waters. 

The  lovely  places  and  sweet  country  all  about  Farring- 
ford  are  not  among  the  least  of  its  charms.  Beyond  the 
Primrose  Island  itself  and  the  blue  Solent,  the  New  Forest 
spreads  its  shades,  and  the  green  depths  reach  to  the  very 
shores.  Have  we  not  all  read  of  the  forest  where  Merlin 
was  becharmed,  where  the  winds  were  still  in  the  wild 


FARRINGFORD    BEACON 
From  an  unpublished  sketch  by  Frederick  Walker 

woods  of  Broceliande  ?  The  forest  of  Brockenhurst,  in 
Hampshire,  waves  no  less  green,  its  ferns  and  depths  are 
no  less  sweet  and  sylvan,  than  those  of  Brittany. 

"Before  an  oak,  so  hollow,  huge,  and  old 
It  look'd  a  tower  of  ruin'd  mason-work, 
At  Merlin's  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay." 

47 


Some  people  camping  in  the  New  Forest  once  told  me  of 
a  mysterious  figure  in  a  cloak  coming  suddenly  upon  them 
out  of  a  deep  glade,  passing  straight  on,  looking  neither  to 
the  right  nor  the  left.  "  It  was  either  a  ghost  or  it  was  Mr. 
Tennyson,"  said  they. 

In  Sir  John  Simeon's  lifetime  there  was  a  constant  inter- 
course between  Farringford  and  Swanston.  Sir  John  was 
one  of  Tennyson's  most  constant  companions — a  knight  of 
courtesy  he  calls  him  in  the  sad  lines  written  in  the  garden 
at  Swanston. 

Maud  grew  out  of  a  remark  of  Sir  John  Simeon's,  to 
whom  Tennyson  had  read  the  lines, 

' '  O  that  'twere  possible 
After  long  grief  and  pain," 

which  lines  were,  so  to  speak,  the  heart  of  Maud.  Sir  John 
said  that  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  something  were  wanting  to 
explain  the  story  of  this  poem,  and  so  by  degrees  it  all  grew. 
One  little  story  was  told  me  on  the  authority  of  Mr.  Henry 
Sidgwick,  who  was  perhaps  present  on  that  occasion.  Ten- 
nyson was  reading  the  poem  to  a  silent  company  assembled 
in  the  twilight,  and  when  he  came  to  the  birds  in  the  high 
hall  garden  calling  Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  he  stopped 
short,  and  asked  an  authoress  who  happened  to  be  present 
what  birds  these  were.  The  authoress,  much  alarmed,  and 
feeling  that  she  must  speak,  and  that  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  company  were  upon  her,  faltered  out,  "  Nightin- 
gales." "Pooh,"  said  Tennyson,  "what  a  cockney  you 
are !  Nightingales  don't  say  Maud.  Rooks  do,  or  some- 
thing like  it.  Caw,  caw,  caw,  caw,  caw."  Then  he  went 
on  reading. 

Reading,  is  it  ?  One  can  hardly  describe  it.  It  is  a  sort 
of  mystical  incantation,  a  chant  in  which  every  note  rises 
and  falls  and  reverberates  again.  As  we  sit  around  the 

4$ 


THE  OAK    LAWN,   ALDWORTH 


twilight  room  at  Farringford,  with  its  great  oriel-window 
looking  to  the  garden,  across  fields  of  hyacinth  and  self- 
sowed  daffodils  towards  the  sea,  where  the  waves  wash 
against  the  rock,  we  seem  carried  by  a  tide  not  unlike  the 
ocean's  sound;  it  fills  the  room,  it  ebbs  and  flows  away; 
and  when  we  leave,  it  is  with  a  strange  music  in  our  ears, 
feeling  that  we  have  for  the  first  time,  perhaps,  heard  what 
we  may  have  read  a  hundred  times  before. 

Let  me  here  note  a  fact,  whether  a  tort  or  apropos  of 
nightingales :  once  when  Mr.  Tennyson  was  in  Yorkshire, 
so  he  told  me,  as  he  was  walking  at  night  in  a  friend's  gar- 
den, he  heard  a  nightingale  singing  with  such  a  frenzy  of 
passion  that  it  was  unconscious  of  everything  else,  and 
not  frightened  though  he  came  and  stood  quite  close  be- 
side it ;  he  could  see  its  eye  flashing,  and  feel  the  air  bub- 
ble in  his  ear  through  the  vibration.  Our  poet,  with  his 
short-sighted  eyes,  can  see  farther  than  most  people.  Al- 
most the  first  time  I  ever  walked  out  with  him,  he  told  me 
to  look  and  tell  him  if  the  field -lark  did  not  come  down 
sideways  upon  its  wing. 

Nature  in  its  various  aspects  makes  up  a  larger  part  of 
this  man's  life  than  it  does  for  other  people.  He  goes  his 
way  unconsciously  absorbing  life,  and  its  lights  and  sounds, 
and  teaching  us  to  do  the  same  as  far  as  may  be.  There 
is  an  instance  of  this  given  in  the  pamphlet  already  quoted 
from,  where  the  two  friends  talk  on  of  one  theme  and  an- 
other from  Kenelm  Digby  to  Aristophanes,  and  the  poet 
is  described  as  saying,  among  other  things,  that  he  knows 
of  no  human  outlook  so  solemn  as  that  from  an  infant's 
eyes,  and  that  it  was  from  those  of  his  own  he  learned  that 
those  of  the  Divine  Child  in  Raffaello's  Sistine  Madonna 
were  not  overcharged  with  expression. 

Here  is  a  reminiscence  of  Tennyson's  about  the  echo  at 
Killarney,  where  he  said  to  the  boatman,  "  When  I  last  was 
here  I  heard  eight  echoes,  and  now  I  only  hear  one."  To 


which  the  man,  who  had  heard  people  quoting  the  bugle 
song,  replied,  "Why,  you  must  be  the  gentleman  that 
brought  all  the  money  to  the  place." 

People  have   different  ideas  of  poets.     Mrs.  B ,  of 

Totland's  Bay,  once  asked  a  Freshwater  boy,  who  was  driv- 
ing her,  "  if  he  knew  Mr.  Tennyson."  "  He  makes  poets  for 
the  Queen,"  said  the  boy.  "What  do  you  mean?"  said  the 
lady,  amused.  "  I  don't  know  what  they  means,"  said  the 
boy,  "  but  p'liceman  often  seen  him  walking  about  a-making 
of  'em  under  the  stars."  The  author  of  Eitphranor  has  his 
own  definition  of  a  poet : 

"  The  only  living — and  like  to  live — poet  I  have  known,  when  he 
found  himself  beside  the  '  bonnie  Doon,'  whether  it  were  from  recollec- 
tion of  poor  Burns,  or  of  '  the  days  that  are  no  more '  which  haunt  us 
'all,  I  know  not — I  think  he  did  not  know — 'broke  into  a  passion  of 
tears '  (as  he  told  me).  Of  tears,  which  during  a  pretty  long  and  inti- 
mate intercourse  I  had  never  seen  glistening  in  his  eyes  but  once,  when 
reading  Virgil — '  dear  old  Virgil,'  as  he  called  him — together  ;  and  then 
— oh,  not  of  Queen  Dido,  nor  of  young  Marcellus  even,  but  of  the  burn- 
ing of  Troy,  in  the  second  ^Eneid — whether  moved  by  the  catastrophe 
itself,  or  the  majesty  of  the  verse  it  is  told  in,  or  as  before,  scarce  know- 
ing why.  For  as  King  Arthur  shall  bear  witness,  no  young  Edwin  he, 
though,  as  a  great  poet,  comprehending  all  the  softer  stops  of  human 
emotion  in  that  diapason  where  the  intellectual,  no  less  than  what  is 
called  the  poetical,  faculty  predominated." 

"You  will  last,"  Douglas  Jerrold  said.  And  there  was 
Carlyle's  "  Eh !  he  has  got  the  grip  of  it,"  when  Tennyson 
read  him  the  Revenge.  But  perhaps  the  best  compliment 
Mr.  Tennyson  ever  received  was  one  day  when  walking  in 
Covent  Garden,  when  he  was  stopped  by  a  rough-looking 
man,  who  held  out  his  hand,  and  said :  "  You're  Mr.  Tenny- 
son. Look  here,  sir,  here  am  I.  I've  been  drunk  for  six 
days  out  of  the  seven,  but  if  you  will  shake  me  by  the  hand, 
I'm  d d  if  I  ever  get  drunk  again." 


IX 


ALDWORTH  was  built  some  twenty  years  ago,  when  Lady 
Tennyson  had  been  ordered  change,  and  Freshwater  was 
found  to  be  unbearable  and  overcrowded  during  the  sum- 
mer months.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  to  hospitable 
people  there  are  dangers  from  friendly  inroads  as  well  as 
from  the  attacks  of  enemies.  The  new  house,  where  for 
many  years  past  the  family  has  spent  its  summers,  stands  on 
the  summit  of  a  high,  lonely  hill  in  Surrey,  and  yet  it  is  not 
quite  out  of  reach  of  London  life.  It  is  a  white  stone  house 
with  many  broad  windows  facing  a  great  view  and  a  long 
terrace,  like  some  one  of  those  at  Siena  or  Perugia,  with  a 
low  parapet  of  stone,  where  ivies  and  roses  are  trained, 
making  a  foreground  to  the  lovely  haze  of  the  distance. 
Sometimes  at  Aldworth,  when  the  summer  days  are  at  their 
brightest,  and  Blackdown  top  has  been  well  warmed  and 
sunned,  I  have  seen  a  little  procession  coming  along  the 
terrace  walk,  and  proceeding  by  its  green  boundary  into  a 
garden,  where  the  sun  shines  its  hottest,  upon  a  sheltered 
lawn,  and  where  standard  rose-trees  burn  their  flames: 
Lord  Tennyson,  in  his  cloak,  going  first,  perhaps  dragging 
the  garden  chair  in  which  Lady  Tennyson  was  lying ;  Hal- 
lam  Tennyson  following,  with  rugs  and  cushions  for  the  rest 
of  the  party.  If  the  little  grandsons  and  their  mother,  in 
her  white  dress  and  broad,  shady  hat,  and  Lionel  Tenny- 
son's boys,  absorbed  in  their  books  of  adventure,  are  there, 
the  family  group  is  complete.  One  special  day  I  remember 
when  we  all  sat  for  an  hour  round  about  the  homely  chair 

55 


and  its  gentle  occupant.  It  seemed  not  unlike  a  realization 
of  some  Italian  picture  that  I  had  somewhere  seen :  the 
tranquil  eyes,  the  peaceful  heights,  the  glorious  summer 
day,  some  sense  of  lasting  calm,  of  beauty  beyond  the 
present  hour. 

Lord  Tennyson  works  alone  in  the  early  hours  of  the 
morning,  and  comes  down  long  after  his  own  frugal  meal  is 
over  to  find  his  guests  assembling  round  the  social  break- 
fast-table. He  generally  goes  out  for  a  walk  before  lunch- 
eon, with  his  son  and  a  friend,  perhaps,  and  followed  by 
a  couple  of  dogs.  Most  of  us  know  the  look  of  the  stately 
figure,  the  hanging  cloak,  and  broad  felt  hat. 

There  used  to  be  one  little  ceremony  peculiar  to  the 
Tennyson  family,  and  reminding  one  of  some  college  cus- 
tom which  continued,  that  when  dinner  was  over  the 
guests  used  to  be  brought  away  into  a  second  room,  where 
stood  a  white  table,  upon  which  fruit  and  wine  were  set, 
and  a  fire  burned  bright,  and  a  pleasant  hour  went  by, 
while  the  master  of  the  house  sat  in  his  carved  chair  and 
discoursed  upon  any  topic  suggested  by  his  guests,  or 
brought  forth  reminiscences  of  early  Lincolnshire  days,  or 
from  facts  remembered  out  of  the  lives  of  past  men  who 
have  been  his  friends.  There  was  Rogers,  among  the  rest, 
for  whom  he  had  a  great  affection,  with  whom  he  con- 
stantly lived  during  that  lonely  time  in  London.  "I  have 
dined  alone  with  him,"  I  heard  Lord  Tennyson  say,  "and 
we  have  talked  about  death  till  the  tears  rolled  down  his 
face." 

Tennyson  met  Tom  Moore  at  Rogers's,  and  there,  too, 
he  first  met  Mr.  Gladstone.  John  Forster,  Leigh  Hunt,  and 
Landor  were  also  friends  of  that  time.  One  of  Tenny- 
son's often  companions  in  those  days  was  Mr.  Hallam, 
whose  opinion  he  once  asked  of  Carlyle's  French  Revolution. 
Mr.  Hallam  replied,  in  his  quick,  rapid  way,  "  Upon  my 

56 


word,  I  once  opened  the  book,  and  read  four  or  five  pages. 
The  style  is  so  abominable  I  could  not  get  on  with  it." 
Whereas  Carlyle's  own  criticism  upon  the  History  of  the 
Middle  Ages  was,  "  Eh !  the  poor,  miserable  skeleton  of  a 
book !" 

Was  it  not  Charles  Lamb  who  wanted  to  return  grace 
after  reading  Shakespeare,  little  deeming  in  humble  sim- 
plicity that  many  of  us  yet  to  come  would  be  glad  to  return 
thanks  for  a  jest  of  Charles  Lamb's.  The  difference  be- 
tween those  who  speak  with  reality,  and  those  who  go 
through  life  fitting  their  second-hand  ideas  to  other  peo- 
ple's words,  is  one  so  marked  that  even  a  child  may  tell  the 
difference.  When  the  Laureate  speaks,  every  word  comes 
wise,  racy,  absolutely  natural,  and  sincere  ;  and  how  gladly 
do  we  listen  to  his  delightful  stories,  full  of  odd  humors  and 
knowledge  of  men  and  women,  or  to  his  graver  talk  !  I  re- 
member thinking  how  true  was  the  phrase  of  Lionel  Tenny- 
son's concerning  his  father,  "  When  a  man  has  read  so  much 
and  thought  so  much,  it  is  an  epitome  of  the  knowledge 
of  to-day  we  find  in  him,"  an  epitome  indeed  touched  by 
the  solemn  strain  of  the  poet's  own  gift.  I  once  heard 
Tennyson  talking  to  some  actors,  to  no  less  a  person  in- 
deed than  to  Hamlet  himself,  for  after  the  curtain  fell  the 
whole  play  seemed  to  flow  from  off  the  stage  into  the  box 
where  we  had  been  sitting,  and  I  could  scarcely  tell  at  last 
where  reality  began  and  Shakespeare  ended.  The  play  was 
over,  and  we  ourselves  seemed  a  part  of  it  still ;  here  were 
the  players,  and  our  own  prince  poet,  in  that  familiar  simple 
voice  we  all  know,  explaining  the  art,  going  straight  to  the 
point  in  his  own  downright  fashion,  criticising  with  delicate 
appreciation,  by  the  simple  force  of  truth  and  conviction 
carrying  all  before  him.  "You  are  a  good  actor  lost,"  one 
of  these,  the  real  actor,  said  to  him. 

It  is  a  gain  to  the  world  when  people  are  content  to  be 

59 


themselves,  not  chipped  to  the  smooth  pattern  of  the  times, 
but  simple,  original,  and  unaffected  in  ways  and  words. 
Here  is  a  poet  leading  a  poet's  life ;  where  he  goes  there 
goes  the  spirit  of  his  home,  whether  in  London  among  the 
crowds,  or  at  Aldworth  on  the  lonely  height,  or  at  Farring- 
ford  in  that  beautiful  bay.  The  last  time  I  went  to  see  him 
in  London  he  was  smoking  in  a  top  room  in  Eton  Square. 
It  may  interest  an  American  public  to  be  told  that  it  was 
Durham  tobacco  from  North  Carolina,  which  Mr.  Lowell 
had  given  him.  I  could  not  but  feel  how  little  even  cir- 
cumstance itself  can  contribute  to  that  mysterious  essence 
of  individuality  which  we  all  recognize  and  love.  In  this 
commonplace  London  room,  with  all  the  stucco  of  Belgravia 
round  about,  I  found  the  old  dream  realized,  the  old  charm 
of  youthful  impression.  There  sat  my  friend  as  I  had  first 
seen  him  years  ago  among  the  clouds. 

NOTE. — This  early  sketch  was  preserved  by  Robert  Browning,  to 
whose  courtesy  we  are  indebted  for  its  use,  and  v/as  one  of  the  interest- 
ing pictures  of  the  Rossetti  exhibition  held  in  London  after  the  painter's 
death.  Mrs.  Browning  was  another  of  the  distinguished  company. 


THE   TENNYSON   COAT   OF   ARMS 


JOHN   RUSK1N 


"  Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 
May  make  one  music  as  before." 


w 


BRANTWOOD 


HEN    the  writer   of 
this   essay  tries   to 
go  back  to  her  first  impres- 
sions of  John   Ruskin,  she 
finds   that   they  must   date 

from  the  round-table  in  the  middle  of  her  father's  drawing- 
room  in  Kensington  —  the  little  drawing-room   in  Young 

63 


Street,  with  the  bow-windows,  the  oak-leaved  carpet,  the 
polished  bookcase  with  its  glass  doors,  and  the  aforesaid 
round-table  with  its  dial  of  books  arranged  in  a  circle,  and 
faithfully  marking  the  march  of  time.  For,  looking  at  a 
list  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  works,  I  find  that  the  Seven  Lamps  of 
Architecture  was  published  in  1849,  soon  after  we  came  to 
live  in  England  in  our  father's  house.  And  in  this  year 
there  appeared  among  the  Punches  and  the  lovely  red  silk 
Annuals  and  Keepsakes  that  illuminated  the  bow-windowed 
room  a  volume  bound  (so  it  seemed  to  us  children)  in 
moulded  slabs  of  pure  chocolate.  I  can  still  recall  the 
look  of  the  broad  margins,  the  pictures,  and  noble-looking 
printed  pages,  and  although  the  Annuals  with  the  fascinat- 
ing brides  and  veiled  ladies,  and  the  ghosts  and  guitars  and 
brigands,  were  perhaps  more  to  our  childish  tastes,  even 
then  we  realized  in  some  indefinite  way  the  importance  of 
the  big  brown  book  which  opened  like  a  casket,  and  gath- 
ered some  impressions  of  palace  windows  and  of  carved 
shadows  from  its  pages — impressions  to  be  afterwards  turned 
into  actual  stone  and  sunlight. 

As  time  went  on,  the  Stones  of  Venice  in  due  course  took 
their  place  upon  our  dial,  and  meanwhile  the  name  of  the 
writer  of  the  beautiful  authoritative  books  is  among  those 
other  echoes,  which  are  so  familiar  that  one  can  scarcely 
tell  when  they  begin  to  sound. 

In  the  first  page  of  the  eleventh  chapter  of  Prceterita 
occurs  the  name  of  "  Mrs.  John  Simon,  who,"  says  Ruskin, 
"in  my  mother's  old  age  was  her  most  deeply  trusted 
friend."  It  was  at  this  lady's  house,  sitting  by  the  kind 
hostess  of  many  a  year  to  be,  that  the  writer  first  saw  the 
author  of  Modern  Painters,  while  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table  Mr.  Simon,  now  Sir  John  ("  Brother  John,"  Ruskin 
dubbed  him  long  since),  sat  carving,  as  was  his  wont,  roast 
mutton — "  be  it  tender  and  smoking  and  juicy  " — and  dis- 

64  ' 


pensing,  as    is   still  his  wont,  trimmings   and  oracles   and 
epigrams  with  every  plateful. 

I  could  even  now  quote  some  of  the  words  Ruskin  spoke 
on  that  summer's  evening  in  Great  Cumberland  Street,  and 
I  can  see  him  as  he  was  then  almost  as  plainly  as  on  the 
last  time  that  we  met.  His  mood  on  that  first  occasion 
was  one  of  deep  depression,  and  I  can  remember  being 
frightened  as  well  as  absorbed  by  his  talk.  Was  he  joking  ? 
was  he  serious  ?  I  could  hardly  follow  what  he  said  then, 
though  now  it  all  seems  simple  enough.  But  good  company 
is  Jike  good  wine,  and  improves  by  keeping,  and  let  us  hope 
that  this  applies  to  the  recipients  as  well  as  to  the  feast 
itself. 

Ruskin  seemed  less  picturesque  as  a  young  man  than  in 
his  later  days.  Perhaps  gray  waving  hair  may  be  more 
becoming  than  darker  locks,  but  the  speaking,  earnest  eyes 
must  have  been  the  same,  as  well  as  the  tones  of  that  de- 
lightful voice,  with  its  slightly  foreign  pronunciation  of  the 
r,  which  seemed  so  familiar  again  when  it  welcomed  us  to 
Coniston  long,  long  years  after.  Meeting  thus  after  fifteen 
years,  I  was  struck  by  the  change  for  the  better  in  him  ;  by 
the  bright,  radiant,  sylvan  look  which  a  man  gains  by  living 
among  woods  and  hills  and  pure  breezes. 

65 


II 


THE  road  to  Brantwood*  runs  beneath  the  old  trees 
which  shade  the  head  of  Coniston  Water,  and  you  leave 
the  village  and  the  inn  behind,  and  the  Thwaite,  with 
its  pretty  old  gardens  and  peacocks,  and  skirt  the  beautiful 
grounds  of  Monk  Coniston ;  you  pass  the  ivy  tower  where 
the  lords  of  the  manor  keep  their  boats  ;  and  the  reeds 
among  which  the  swallows  and  dragon -flies  are  darting; 
and  as  you  advance,  if  you  look  back  across  the  green  hay- 
fields  and  wooded  slopes  of  Monk  Coniston,  you  can  see 
Weatherlam  and  Ravenscrag,  with  Yewdale  for  a  back- 
ground, while  Coniston  Old  Man  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  lake  rises  like  a  Pilatus  above  the  village,  and  soars 
into  changing  lights  and  clouds.  Then,  as  you  walk  still 
farther  along  the  road,  leaving  all  these  things  behind,  you 
pass  into  a  sweet  Arcadia,  in  which,  indeed,  one  loses  one's 
self  again  in  after- times.  You  go  by  Tent  Lodge,  where 
Tennyson  once  dwelt,  where  the  beautiful  Romneys  are 
hanging  on  the  walls ;  you  pass  the  cottage  with  roses  for 
bricks,  and  with  jasmines  and  honeysuckles  for  thatch,  and 
the  farm  where  the  pet  lamb  used  to  dwell,  to  the  terror  of 
the  children  (it  seemed  appropriate  enough  to  Wordsworth's 

*  Ruskin,  writing  of  his  earliest  recollections  of  Coniston  in  Prteterita,  says :  "  The 
inn  at  Coniston  was  then  actually  at  the  upper  end  of  the  lake,  the  road  from  Amble- 
side  to  the  village  passing  just  between  it  and  the  water,  and  the  view  of  the  long  reach 
of  lake,  with  its  softly  wooded  lateral  hills,  had  for  my  father  a  tender  charm  which  ex- 
cited the  same  feeling  as  that  with  which  he  afterwards  regarded  the  lakes  of  Italy. 
Lowwood  Inn  also  was  then  little  more  than  a  country  cottage,  and  Ambleside  a  rural 
village,  and  the  absolute  peace  and  bliss  which  any  one  who  cared  for  grassy  hills  and 
for  sweet  waters  might  find  at  every  footstep  and  at  every  turn  of  crag  or  bend  of  bog 
was  totally  unlike  anything  I  ever  saw  or  read  of  elsewhere." 

66 


country,  but  I  can  remember  a  little  baby  girl  wild  with  ter- 
ror and  flying  from  its  gambols) ;  then,  still  following  the 
road,  you  reach  a  delightful  cackling  colony  of  poultry  and 
ducks,  where  certain  hospitable  ladies  used  to  experiment- 
alize, and  prove  to  us  whether  or  no  eggs  are  eggs  (as  these 
ladies  have  determined  eggs  should  be) ;  then  comes  Low 
Bank  Ground,  our  own  little  farm  lodging  among  the  chest- 
nut-trees and  meadows  full  of  flowers.  It  had  been  the  site 
of  a  priory  once,  and  on  this  slope  and  in  the  shade  of  the 
chestnut-trees,  where  monks  once  dwelt,  the  writer  met  Rus- 
kin  again  after  many  years.  He,  the  master  of  Brantwood, 
came,  as  I  remember,  dressed  with  some  ceremony,  meeting 
us  with  a  certain  old-fashioned  courtesy  and  manner ;  but  he 
spoke  with  his  heart,  of  which  the  fashion  doesn't  change 
happily  from  one  decade  to  another ;  and  as  he  stood  in  his 
tall  hat  and  frock-coat  upon  the  green,  the  clouds  and  drifts 
came  blowing  up  from  every  quarter  of  heaven,  and  I  can 
almost  see  him  while  he  talked  with  emphasis  and  remem- 
brance of  that  which  was  then  in  both  our  minds.  Low 
Bank  Ground  is  but  a  very  little  way  from  Brantwood  ;  you 
can  go  there  by  land  or  by  water.  If  you  walk,  the  road 
climbs  the  spur  of  the  hill,  and  runs  below  moors  by  a  wood 
where  squirrels  sit  under  the  oak-trees  and  honeysuckles 
drop  from  the  branches ;  or,  if  you  like  to  go  by  the  lake, 
you  can  get  Timothy  from  the  farm  to  row  you.  "  A  dash 
of  the  oars,  and  you  are  there,"  as  Ruskin  said,  and  accord- 
ingly we  started  in  the  old  punt  for  our  return  visit  to 
Brantwood. 

The  sun  came  out  between  rain  clouds  as  the  boat  struck 
with  a  hollow  crunch  against  the  stones  of  the  tiny  landing 
pier.  Timothy  from  the  farm,  who  had  come  to  pilot  us,  told 
us  with  a  sympathetic  grin  that  Mr.  Ruskin — "  Rooskin," 
I  think  he  called  him — "  had  built  t'  pier,  and  set  t'  stoans 
himsel'  wi'  the  other  gentlemen,  but  they  had  to  send  for  t' 

67 


smith  from  the  village  to  make  t'  bolts  faaster."  The  pier 
is  fast  enough,  running  out  into  the  lake,  with  a  little  fleet 
safely  anchored  behind  it,  while  Brantwood  stands  high  up 
on  the  slope,  with  square  windows  looking  across  the  waters. 
Just  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake,  wrapped  in  mysterious 
ivy  wreaths,  where  the  cows  are  whisking  their  tails  beneath 
the  elms,  rise  the  gables  of  the  old  farm,  once  the  manor- 
house  where  "  Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother,"  once 
dwelt.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  used  to  come  riding  across  the  dis- 
tant hills  to  visit  her  there — so  tradition  says.  The  mere 
thought  of  Coniston  Water  brings  back  the  peaceful  le- 
gends and  sounds  all  about  Ruskin's  home :  the  plash  of 
the  lake,  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  and  rushes,  the  beat  of 
birds  on  their  whirring  wings,  the  flop  of  the  water-rats,  the 
many  buzzing  and  splashing  and  delicious  things.  A  path 
up  a  garden  of  fruit  and  flowers,  of  carnations  and  straw- 
berries, leads  with  gay  zigzags  to  the  lawn  in  front  of  the 
Brantwood  windows. 

The  house  is  white,  plain,  and  comfortable,  absolutely 
unpretending.  I  remember  noticing,  with  a  thrill,  the  um- 
brella-stand in  the  glass  door.  So  Mr.  Ruskin  had  an  um- 
brella just  like  other  people  !  It  seemed  to  me  to  be  a 
dwelling  planned  for  sunshine,  and  sunshine  on  the  lakes 
is  of  a  quality  so  sweet  and  rare  that  it  counts  for  more 
than  in  any  other  place.  The  brightness  of  Brantwood, 
the  squareness,  and  its  unaffected  comfortableness,  were,  I 
think,  the  chief  characteristics.  You  had  a  general  impres- 
sion of  solid,  old-fashioned  furniture,  of  amber-colored  dam- 
ask curtains  and  coverings ;  there  were  Turners  and  other 
water -color  pictures  in  curly  frames  upon  the  drawing- 
room  walls  —  a  Prout,  I  think,  among  them ;  there  was  a 
noble  Titian  in  the  dining-room,  and  the  full-length  portrait 
of  a  child  in  a  blue  sash  over  the  sideboard,  which  has  be- 
come familiar  since  then  to  the  readers  of  Prtzterita;  and 

68 


most  certainly  was  there  an  absence  of  any  of  the  art-diph- 
thongs and  peculiarities  of  modern  taste  :  only  the  simplest 
and  most  natural  arrangements  for  the  comfort  of  the  in- 
mates and  their  guests.  Turkey  carpets,  steady  round-tables, 
and  above  all  a  sense  of  cheerful,  hospitable  kindness,  which 
seems  to  be  traditional  at  Brantwood.  For  many  years  past 
Mrs.  Severn  has  kept  her  cousin's  house,  and  welcomed  his 
guests  with  her  own. 

That  evening  —  the  first  we  spent  at  Brantwood  —  the 
rooms  were  lighted  by  slow  sunset  cross-lights  from  the  lake 
without.  Mrs.  Severn  sat  in  her  place  behind  a  silver  urn, 
while  the  master  of  the  house,  with  his  back  to  the  window, 
was  dispensing  such  cheer,  spiritual  and  temporal,  as  those 
who  have  been  his  guests  will  best  realize.  Fine  wheaten 
bread  and  Scotch  cakes  in  many  a  crisp  circlet  and  crescent, 
and  trout  from  the  lake,  and  strawberries  such  as  only  grow 
on  the  Brantwood  slopes.  Were  these  cups  of  tea  only,  or 
cups  of  fancy,  feeling,  inspiration  ?  And  as  we  crunched 
and  quaffed  we  listened  to  a  certain  strain  not  easily  to  be 
described,  changing  from  its  graver  first  notes  to  the  sweet- 
est and  most  charming  vibrations. 


Ill 


WHO  can  ever  recall  a  good  talk  that  is  over  ?  You  can 
remember  the  room  in  which  it  was  held,  the  look  of  the 
chairs,  but  the  actual  talk  takes  wings  and  flies  away.  A 
dull  talk  has  no  wings,  and  is  rememberd  more  easily  ;  so 
are  those  tiresome  conversations  which  consist  of  sentences 
which  we  all  repeat  by  rote,  sentences  which  have  bored  us 
a  hundred  times  before,  and  which  do  not  lose  this  property 

69 


by  long  use.  But  a  real  talk  leaps  into  life ;  it  is  there  al- 
most before  we  are  conscious  of  its  existence.  What  system 
of  notation  can  mark  it  down  as  it  flows,  modulating  from 
its  opening  chords  to  those  delightful  exhilarating  strains 
which  are  gone  again  almost  before  we  have  realized  them. 

Ruskin  was  explaining  his  views  in  his  own  words  as  we 
sat  there.  I  should  do  him  ill  justice  if  I  tried  to  transcribe 
his  sermon.  The  text  was  that  strawberries  should  be  ripe 
and  sweet,  and  we  munched  and  marked  it  then  and  there ; 
that  there  should  be  a  standard  of  fitness  applied  to  every 
detail  of  life ;  and  this  standard,  with  a  certain  gracious 
malice,  wit,  hospitality,  and  remorselessness,  he  began  to 
apply  to  one  thing  and  another,  to  one  person  and  another, 
to  dress,  to  food,  to  books.  I  remember  his  describing  to 
my  brother-in-law  Leslie  Stephen  the  shabby  print  and 
paper  that  people  were  content  to  live  with,  and  contrasting 
with  these  the  books  he  himself  was  then  printing  for  the 
use  of  the  shepherds  round  about.  And  among  the  rest  he 
showed  us  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  pharaphrase  of  the  Psalms, 
which  he  has  long  since  given  to  the  world  in  the  Biblio- 
theca  Pastornm.  Let  us  trust  these  fortunate  shepherds 
are  worthy  of  their  print  and  margins. 

If,  as  I  have  already  said,  we  compare  the  talk  of  great 
men  and  women  "who  will  cause  this  age  to  be  remem- 
bered," one  element  is  to  be  found  in  them  all  —  a  certain 
directness,  simplicity,  and  vivid  reality ;  a  gift  for  reaching 
their  hearers  at  once,  giving  light  straight  from  themselves, 
and  not  in  reflections  from  other  minds  ;  sunshine,  in  short, 
not  moonshine.  Perhaps  something  of  this  may  be  due  to 
the  habit  of  self-respect  and  self-reliance  which  success  and 
strength  of  purpose  naturally  create.  Many  uncelebrated 
people  have  the  grace  of  convincing  simplicity,  but  I  have 
never  met  a  really  great  man  without  it.  As  one  thinks  of 
it,  one  recognizes  that  a  great  man  is  greater  than  we  are 


JOHN  RUSKIN  —  [From  portrait  by  Hubert  Herkoiner,  A.  R.  A.] 
From  the  etching  published  by  Fine  Art  Society,  London 


because  his  aim  (consciously  or  unconsciously)  is  juster,  his 
strength  stronger  and  less  strained ;  his  right  is  more  right 
than  ours,  his  certainty  more  certain ;  he  shows  us  the  best 
of  that  which  concerns  him,  and  the  best  of  ourselves  too 
in  that  which  concerns  us  in  his  work  or  his  teaching. 

If  we  look  at  the  Elgin  marbles,  for  instance,  we  feel  that 
the  standard  of  human  attainment  is  forever  raised  by  those 
broken  lines  in  eternal  harmony,  and  we  also  indefinitely 
realize  that  while  looking  at  them  we  ourselves  are  at  our 
best  in  sculpture ;  and  so  listening  back  to  the  echoes  of  a 
lifetime,  we  can  most  of  us  still  hear  some  strains  very  clear, 
very  real  and  distinct,  out  of  all  the  confusion  of  past  noise 
and  chatter ;  and  the  writer  (nor  is  she  alone  in  this)  must  ever 
count  the  magic  of  the  music  of  Brantwood  oratory  among 
such  strains.  Music,  oratory,  I  know  not  what  to  call  that 
wondrous  gift  which  subjugates  all  who  come  within  its  reach. 

"  God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so,  lending  our  minds  out." 

If  ever  a  man  lent  out  his  mind  to  help  others,  Ruskin  is 
the  man.  From  country  to  country,  from  age  to  age,  from 
element  to  element,  he  leads  the  way,  while  his  audience, 
laughing,  delighted,  follows  with  scrambling  thoughts  and 
apprehensions  and  flying  leaps,  he  meanwhile  illustrating 
each  delightful,  fanciful,  dictatorial  sentence  with  pictures 
by  the  way — things,  facts,  objects  interwoven,  bookcases 
opening  wide,  sliding  drawers  unlocked  with  his  own  mar- 
vellous keys — and  lo !  we  are  perhaps  down  in  the  centre  of 
the  earth,  far  below  Brantwood  and  its  surrounding  hills, 
among  specimens,  minerals,  and  precious  stones,  Ruskin 
still  going  ahead,  and  crying  "  sesame  "  and  "  sesame,"  and 
revealing  each  secret  recess  of  his  King's  Treasury  in  turn, 
pointing  to  each  tiny  point  of  light  and  rainbow  veined  in 
marble,  gold  and  opal,  crystal  and  emerald.  Then,  perhaps, 
while  we  are  wondering,  and  barely  beginning  to  apprehend 


his  delightful  illustrations,  the. lecturer  changes  from  natural 
things  to  those  of  art,  from  veins  of  gold  meandering  in  the 
marble  and  speaking  of  ages,  to  coins  marking  the  history 
of  man.  I  was  specially  struck  by  some  lovely  old  Holbein 
pieces  of  Henry  VIII.  which  he  brought  out.  I  can  still 
see  Ruskin's  hand  holding  the  broad  gold  mark  in  its  palm. 
Who  could  help  speculating  at  such  a  moment  ?  Whence 
had  it  come,  that  golden  token,  since  Holbein  laid  his 
chisel  down  ?  From  what  other  hands  had  it  reached  this 
one  ?  Had  Shakespeare  once  had  the  spending  of  it,  had 
Bacon  clutched  at  it,  or  had  Buckingham  flung  it  to  the 
wind,  or  had  Milton  owned  it,  perhaps,  before  Cromwell 
called  the  King's  money  back  into  his  own  treasury  ?  Any- 
how, this  golden  piece  has  escaped  the  Puritan's  crucibles, 
and  here  it  is  still,  to  show  us  what  a  golden  coin  has  been, 
and  lying  safe  in  the  Brantwood  treasury. 


IV 


IT  is  now  several  years  since  we  were  at  Coniston,  and  I 
may  have  perhaps  somewhat  confused  the  various  occasions 
when  we  went  to  Brantwood.  One  year  the  family  was  ab- 
sent during  our  stay,  but  tokens  of  present  kindness  came 
day  after  day — basketfuls  brought  up  by  the  gardener,  roses 
and  the  afore-mentioned  strawberries,  and  other  ripe  things 
that  had  colored  in  its  sunshine. 

Another  year  when  we  were  staying  at  the  farm  Ruskin 
was  at  Brantwood,  alone  with  a  young  relative,  and  he  asked 
us  to  go  up  and  see  him.  Again  I  remember  one  of  those 
long  monologues,  varied,  absorbing,  combining  pictures  and 
metaphors  into  one  delightful  whole,  while  the  talker,  carried 


along  by  his  own  interest  in  his  subject,  would  be  starting 
to  his  feet,  bringing  down  one  and  another  volume  from  the 
shelf,  opening  the  page  between  his  hands,  and  beginning 
to  read  the  passage  appropriate  to  his  theme.  It  was  some 
book  of  Indian  warfare  that  he  brought  down  from  its  place, 
and  as  he  opened  it  he  then  and  there  began  his  sermon: 
spoke  of  the  example  which  good  Christian  men  and  wom- 
en might  set  in  any  part  of  the  world ;  quoted  Sir  Herbert  Ed- 
wards, whom  he  loved  and  admired,  as  an  example  of  what 
a  true  man  should  be.  He  spoke  of  him  with  kindling  eyes, 
warming  as  he  went  on  to  tell,  as  only  a  Ruskin  could  tell 
it,  the  heroic  history  of  the  first  Sikh  war.  What  happened 
in  India  yesterday  he  did  not  know ;  he  said  he  sometimes 
spent  months  without  once  looking  at  the  papers,  and  in  de- 
liberate ignorance  of  what  was  happening  and  not  happen- 
ing in  their  columns. 

•  There  is  a  story  told  of  Ruskin  receiving  a  telegram  not 
long  ago  from  some  member  of  the  royal  family,  of  which 
he  could  not  construe  the  meaning  until  he  called  in  the 
telegraph  boy,  who  then  informed  him  of  an  event  with 
which  the  country  had  been  ringing  for  weeks  past,  and  to 
which  the  telegram  related. 

I  further  remember,  among  other  things,  after  his  little 
lecture  upon  "True  Knights,"  a  delightful  description  of 
what  a  True  Lady  should  be.  "  A  princess,  a  washer-woman," 
he  said — "  yes,  a  washer-woman  !  To  see  that  all  is  fair  and 
clean,  to  wash  with  water,  to  cleanse  and  purify  wherever  she 
goes,  to  set  disordered  things  in  orderly  array — this  was  a 
woman's  mission."  Which  sentence  has  often  occurred  to 
me  since  then  at  irritating  moments  of  household  adminis- 
tration. Ruskin  has  written  something  not  unlike  it  in  his 
lecture  upon  "Queen's  Gardens;"  but  how  different  is  the 
impression  left,  even  by  such  printers'  type  as  his,  from  that 
of  the  words  and  the  voice  flowing  on  in  its  measure ! 


The  writer,  speaking  to  one  of  Ruskin's  most  constant 
and  faithful  readers,  once  compared  him  to  a  Prospero, 
thinking  of  this  strange  power  of  his  over  the  minds  of  those 
who  are  in  his  company,  of  the  sweet  harmonies  he  can  raise 
at  will,  of  the  wanderings  he  can  impose  upon  his  subjects, 
and  of  his  playful  humors  and  fanciful  experiments  upon 
the  audience,  "  be  it  to  fly,  to  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to 
ride  on  the  curl'd  cloud."  Mrs.  Fanny  Kemble,  who  was 
the  lady  in  question  (she  sat  with  a  volume  of  Modern  Paint- 
ers open  before  her),  said :  "  No ;  I  myself  see  no  resem- 
blance whatever  between  the  two :  Prospero  dealt  with  magic 
and  unreality ;  the  power  of  Ruskin  lies  in  the  extraordinary 
reality  of  his  teaching.  Think  what  a  vision  of  beauty  lies 
spread  before  that  man."  And  this  is  certainly  high  and 
worthy  praise,  coming  from  one  who  herself  belongs  to  the 
noble  race  of  spiritual  pastors  and  masters.  Mrs.  Kemble 
concluded  by  quoting  Ruskin's  account  of  a  heap  of  gravel 
by  the  road-side,  which  she  had  just  been  reading,  and  which 
she  said  had  struck  her  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  de- 
scriptions ever  written  in  the  English  language. 


RUSKIN  has  said  somewhere  that  his  three  great  masters 
have  been  Tintoret,  Carlyle,  and  Turner.  When  John  Rus- 
kin, the  son  of  John  Ruskin,  was  born  in  1819,  Titian  had 
been  dead  over  two  hundred  years  ;  Carlyle,  beginning  life, 
was  living  in  Edinburgh,  where  he  was  supporting  himself 
by  literature  and  by  articles  in  Dr.  Brewster's  Encyclopedia  ; 
Turner  was  a  man  of  forty-four,  already  well  advanced  in 
life;  he  had  published  his  Liber  Studiorum,  painted  many 

78 


noble  pictures;  he  had  built  his 
house  in  Queen  Anne  Street,  and 
was  then  starting  for  Italy.  It  was 
a  dull  and  unromantic  time  in  the 
history  of  England,  a  time  reach- 
ing beyond  the  fifty  years'  radius  of  our  recent  Jubilee. 
Men,  weary  of  war,  were  resting  and  counting  its  cost; 
the  poor  were  suffering,  the  rich  were  bankrupt ;  the  old 
King  was  dying,  Princess  Charlotte  was  dead ;  the  Regent 
was  absorbed  in  his  schemes  and  selfish  ends;  corn  was 
at  starvation  prices ;  mobs  were  breaking  out  in  discon- 
tent and  riot;  and  yet  no  less  than  in  more  propitious 
hours  were  the  divine  sparks  falling  from  heaven — upon  chil- 
dren at  their  play,  upon  infants  in  their  cradles,  who  were 
to  grow  up  with  hearts  kindled  by  that  sacred  flame  which, 
refracted  from  generation  to  generation,  keeps  the  world 
alive. 

79 


"See  a  disenchanted  nation 
Spring  like  day  from  desolation  ; 
To  Truth  its  state  is  dedicate, 
And  Freedom  leads  it  forth." 

So  wrote  Shelley,  at  that  time  looking  his  last  at  the  Bay 
of  Naples,  and  completing  the  first  act  of  his  Prometheus, 
while  Browning  and  Tennyson  were  children  at  play  in  their 
fathers'  gardens — Tennyson  hidden  far  away  among  Lin- 
colnshire wolds  and  levels,  Browning  plucking  his  own  brand 
of  Promethean  fire  somewhere  on  the  heights  that  encircle 
the  great  city  where  Ruskin,  still  lying  in  his  cradle,  had 
not  as  yet  found  a  miraculous  voice  to  cry  out  with,  and  to 
protest  that  though  love  of  Truth  and  Justice  might  be  the 
same  for  both,  Shelley's  Freedom  and  John  Ruskin's  Free- 
dom were  as  unlike  as  night  and  day.* 

"  I  am,  and  my  father  was  before  me,  a  violent  Tory  of 
the  old  school — Walter  Scott's  school,  that  is  to  say,  and 
Homer's,"  says  Ruskin  in  the  first  lines  of  Prceterita,  going 
back  to  those  early  days  when  his  lately  married  father  and 
mother  had  settled  down  in  Bloomsbury,  and  when  he  him- 
self first  comes  upon  the  scene,  "  a  child  with  yellow  hair, 
dressed  in  a  white  frock  like  a  girl,  with  a  broad,  light  blue 
sash  and  blue  shoes  to  match,"  standing  at  a  window,  and 
watching  the  events  of  the  street. 

As  one  reads  Pr&terita  it  seems  as  if  John  Ruskin  wrote 
his  history  not  with  ink,  but  painted  it  down  with  light 
and  color;  he  brings  the  very  atmosphere  of  his  life  and  its 
phases  before  us  with  such  an  instantaneous  mastery  as  few 
besides  have  ever  reached  —  the  life  within,  without  the 
sweet  eternal  horizons  (even  though  they  be  but  Norwood 


*  "  My  own  teaching  has  been  and  is  that  Liberty,  whether  in  the  body,  soul,  or 
political  estate  of  men,  is  only  another  word  for  Death,  and  the  final  issue  of  Death — 
Putrefaction;  the  body,  spirit,  and  political  estate  being  healthy  only  by  their  bonds 
and  laws." — 1875,  Fors,  Letter  411. 

So 


hills  and  ridges),  the  living  and  delightful   figures  in  the 
foreground. 

Its  author  has  chosen  to  christen  the  story  Prceterita,  but 
was  ever  a  book  less  belonging  to  the  past  and  more  en- 
tirely present  to  our  mood  than  this  one  ?  Not  Goethe's 
own  autobiography,  not  even  Carlyle's  passionate  reminis- 
cences, come  up  to  it  in  vividness.  There  are  so  few  words, 
such  limpid  images  are  brought  flashing  before  us,  that  in 
our  secret  consciousness  we  remember  rather  than  we  read." 
Are  we  not  actually  living  in  its  pages,  in  the  dawning  light 
of  that  austere  yet  glorious  childhood  ?  Half  a  century  rolls 
back,  and  we  see  the  baby  up  above  at  the  drawing-room 
windows,  standing  absorbed,  watching  the  water-carts,  and 
that  wondrous  turn -cock,  "who  turns  and  turns  till  a  fount- 
ain springs  up  in  the  middle  of  the  street,"  and  as  we  still 
watch  the  child,  gazing  out  with  his  blue,  deep-set  eyes,  the 
brown  brick  walls  somehow  become  transparent,  as  they  did 
for  Ebenezer  Scrooge,  and  we  are  in  the  same  mysterious 
fashion  absorbed  into  the  quiet  home  and  silent  life.  We 
get  to  know  the  inmates  with  some  immaterial  friendship 
and  intimacy.  The  father,  "  that  entirely  honest  man  "  of 
rare  gifts  and  refinement,  going  and  coming  to  his  wine- 
merchant's  office  in  Billeter  Street ;  the  mother,  combining 
the  spirit  of  Martha  and  of  Mary,  unflinching,  orderly,  living 
for  her  husband  and  her  son,  not  rejecting  the  better  part, 
but  forcing  every  member  of  her  household  to  conform  to 
her  views  of  both  worlds,  and  binding  down  their  lives  by 
some  emphatic  and  restraining  power.  But  how  soon  the 
child  born  to  such  liberty  of  thought,  to  such  absolute  obedi- 
ence of  will,  learns  to  escape  from  his  bonds,  to  create  his 
own  life  and  world !  His  very  playthings  (all  others  being 
denied  to  him)  he  makes  for  himself  out  of  the  elements,  the 
air  above,  the  waters  beneath,  the  craters  of  the  coal-heavers 
as  they  empty  the  sacks  at  the  door.  "  My  mother's  general 


principles  of  the  first  treatment  were  to  guard  me  with  steady 
watchfulness  from  all  avoidable  pain  or  danger ;  and  for  the 
rest  to  let  me  amuse  myself ;  but  the  law  was  I  should  find 
my  own  amusement.  No  toys  of  any  kind  were  at  first  al- 
lowed, and  the  pity  of  my  Croydon  aunt  for  my  monastic 
poverty  in  this  respect  was  boundless.  On  one  of  my  birth- 
days, thinking  to  overcome  my  mother's  resolution  by  splen- 
dor of  temptation,  she  bought  the  most  radiant  Punch  and 
Judy  she  could  find  in  all  the  Soho  Bazar,  as  big  as  a  real 
Punch  and  Judy,  all  dressed  in  scarlet  and  gold,  and  that 
would  dance.  .  .  .  My  mother  was  obliged  to  accept  them, 
but  afterwards  quietly  told  me  it  was  not  right  I  should  have 
them,  and  I  never  saw  them  again." 

This  Croydon  aunt  must  have  been  a  good  and  loving 
aunt  to  little  John.  "  Whenever  my  father  was  ill,"  he  says 
— "  and  hard  work  and  sorrow  had  already  set  their  mark  on 
him  —  we  all  went  down  to  Croydon  to  be  petted  by  my 
homely  aunt,  and  walk  on  Duppas  Hill  and  on  the  heather 
of  Addington."  He  dwells  with  affectionate  remembrance 
upon  the  house  and  its  gables  and  early  fascinations  for 
him.  "  My  chosen  domain  being  the  shop,  the  back  room, 
and  the  stones  round  the  spring  of  crystal  water  at  the  back 
door  (long  since  let  down  into  the  modern  sewer)?  and  my 
chief  companion  my  aunt's  dog  Towser,  whom  she  had 
taken  pity  on  when  he  was  a  snappish,  starved  vagrant,  and 
made  a  brave  and  affectionate  dog  of,  which  was  the  kind 
of  thing  she  did  for  every  living  creature  that  came  in  her 
way  all  her  life  long." 

Mrs.  Ruskin,  with  all  her  passionate  devotion  to  her  son, 
seems  to  have  had  no  idea  whatever  of  making  a  little  child 
happy.  The  baby's  education  was  terribly  consistent;  he 
was  steadily  whipped  when  he  was  troublesome  or  when  he 
tumbled  down-stairs.  "We  seldom  had  company  even 
on  week-days,  and  I  was  never  allowed  to  come  down  to 

82 


dessert  until  much  later  in  life,  when  I  was  able  to  crack 
other  people's  nuts  for  them,  but  never  to  have  any  myself, 
nor  anything  else  of  a  dainty  kind.  Once  at  Hunter  Street 
I  recollect  my  mother  giving  me  three  raisins  in  the  forenoon 
out  of  the  store -cabinet."  But  not  all  the  rules  and  rails 
and  restrictions  of  Hunter  Street  and  Brunswick  Square 
could  prevent  the  child  from  finding  out  for  himself  that 
brick  walls  do  not  a  prison  make,  nor  iron  bars  a  cage.  He 
stands  in  the  light  of  the  window,  in  his  silent,  thoughtful 
fashion,  creating  his  own  existence  for  himself,  and  just  as 
the  turn -cock  turned  and  turned  until  a  fountain  sprang 
from  the  pavement,  so  even  in  baby  life  does  Ruskin  lay  his 
master-hand  upon  the  stones,  and  lo  !  the  stream  of  life  be- 
gins to  flow.  In  later  days  "he  smites  the  rock,  and  bids  the 
children  drink  living  waters  from  the  spring  of  life  eternal, 
sometimes  also  to  be  mingled  with  those  waters  of  strife 
"called  Meribah."* 


VI 


IT  was  up  on  the  summit  of  Herne  Hill  that  John  Ruskin 
the  elder  (when  he  felt  that  his  affairs  justified  him  in  so 
doing)  bought  the  semi-detached  house  standing  among 
the  almond  blossoms,  from  whence  Ruskin  dates  the  pref- 
ace to  PrcEterita.  "  I  write  these  few  prefatory  words  on 
my  father's  birthday,"  says  Ruskin,  in  the  year  1886,  "in 
what  was  once  my  nursery  in  his  old  house,  to  which  he 
brought  my  mother  and  me  sixty- two  years  since,  I  being 
then  four  years  old." 

We  have  good  reason  to  be  grateful  to  a  writer  who  sets 
down  for  our  happy  reading  such  remembrance,  such  silence, 

*  See  the  first  volume  of  Modern  Painters  and  certain  numbers  of  Deucalion,  etc. 

83 


as  this.  Almost  every  child  has  some  natural  glamour  and 
instinct  of  its  own  by  which  the  glare  of  life  is  softened,  and 
the  first  steep  ways  garlanded  and  eased  and  charmed.  We 
call  those  men  poets  who  retain  this  divine  faculty  all  their 
lives,  and  who  are  able  to  continue  looking  at  the  world 
with  the  clear  gaze  of  childhood,  discerning  the  unchanging 
natural  things  and  beauties  in  the  midst  of  all  the  wanderings 
of  disappointment  and  confusion.  Such  a  poet  is  Ruskin, 
if  ever  a  man  was  born  one.  Take  the  story  of  little  John  at 
play  in  his  childish  garden,  where  the  mulberry-tree  and  the 
white  heart  cherry-tree  are  growing :  "  The  ground  was  ab- 
solutely beneficent  with  magical  splendor  of  abundant  fruit, 
fresh  green,  soft  amber,  and  rough  bristled  crimson,  bending 
the  spinous  branches,  clustered  pearl  and  pendent  ruby, 
joyfully  discoverable  under  the  large  leaves  that  looked  like 
vine."  ..."  The  differences  of  primal  importance  which  I 
observed,"  he  says,  "  between  the  nature  of  this  garden  and 
that  of  Eden,  as  I  imagined  it,  were  that  in  this  one  all  the 
fruit  was  forbidden,  and  there  were  no  companionable  beasts." 
Then  follows  a  touch  of  which  many  a  parent  will  ruefully 
acknowledge  the  truth  :  "  My  mother,  finding  her  chief  per- 
sonal pleasure  in  her  flowers,  was  often  planting  or  pruning 
beside  me,  at  least  if  I  chose  to  stay  beside  her.  .  .  .  Her 
presence  was  no  restraint  to  me,  and  also  no  particular 
pleasure,  for,  from  having  always  been  left  so  much  alone,  I 
had  generally  my  own  little  affairs  to  see  to,  and  by  the  time 
I  was  seven  years  old  I  was  already  independent  mentally 
both  of  my  father  and  mother,  and  having  nobody  else  to 
be  dependent  upon,  began  to  lead  a  very  small,  poky,  con- 
tented, conceited,  Cock-Robinson-Crusoe  sort  of  life." 

How  these  words  set  one  to  the  measure  and  the  feeling 
of  that  isolated  mystical  little  life  in  the  central  point  of  the 
universe,  as  he  says  it  appeared  to  him,  as  it  must  generally 
appear  to  geometrical  animals  ! 


When  little  John  grew  older  he  learned  to  read  and  to  spell 
with  what  seems  absolutely  wonderful  quickness.  Every 
morning  after  breakfast  he  sat  down  with  his  mother  to 
read  the  Bible.  "  My  mother  never  gave  me  more  to  learn 
than  she  knew  I  could  easily  get  learned,  if  I  set  myself 
honestly  to  work,  by  twelve  o'clock.  She  never  allowed 
anything  to  disturb  me  when  my  task  was  set ;  and  in  gen- 
eral, even  when  Latin  grammar  came  to  supplement  the 
Psalms,  I  was  my  own  master  for  at  least  half  an  hour 
before  the  half-past  one  dinner."  The  list  of  those  portions 
of  the  Psalms  and  chapters  of  the  Bible  which  little  John 
Ruskin  had  to  learn  by  heart  is  conscientiously  given,  and 
might  seem  to  some  of  us  an  appalling  list.  But  upon  this 
he  comments  as  follows  :  "  Truly,  though  I  have  picked  up 
the  elements  of  a  little  further  knowledge,  and  owe  not  a 
little  to  the  teaching  of  many  people,  this  maternal  installa- 
tion of  my  mind  in  that  property  of  chapters  I  count  very 
confidently  the  most  precious,  and  on  the  whole  the  one 
essential,  part  of  my  education."  "  Peace,  Obedience,  Faith," 
were  the  three  great  boons  of  his  early  life,  he  says,  and 
"the  habit  of  fixed  attention."  The  defects  of  it  are  told 
very  forcibly  in  language  which  is  pathetic  in  its  directness. 
"  I  had  nothing  to  love.  My  parents  were,  in  a  sort,  visible 
powers  of  nature  to  me  ;  no  more  loved  than  the  sun  and 
moon."  And  thus  he  sums  it  up.  His  life  was  too  formal 
and  too  luxurious ;  "  by  protection  innocent,  instead  of  by 
practice  virtuous." 

Ruskin  should  have  been  a  novelist.  It  is  true,  he  says 
he  never  knew  a  child  more  incapable  than  himself  of  tell- 
ing a  tale,  but  when  he  chooses  to  describe  a  man  *  or  a 
woman,  there  stands  the  figure  before  us ;  when  he  tells  a 

*  Take  these  few  lines  descriptive  of  Severn :  "  Lightly  sagacious,  lovingly  hu- 
morous, daintily  sentimental,  as  if  life  were  but  for  him  the  rippling  chant  of  his  fa- 
vorite song,  '  Genie !  e  qui  Puccellatore?  " 

87 


story,  we  live  it.  His  is  rather  the  descriptive  than  the  con- 
structive faculty;  his  mastery  is  over  detail  and  quality 
rather  than  over  form.  How  delightfully  he  remembers ! 
How  one  loves  his  journeys  in  Mr.  Telford's  post-chaise, 
where  he  sits  propped  upon  his  own  little  trunk  between 
father  and  mother,  looking  out  at  the  country  through  the 
glass  windows.  Mr.  Ruskin  the  elder  is  travelling  for  or- 
ders, and  he  brings  his  family  north,  and  finally  to  his  sis- 
ter's home  in  Perth,  where  we  read  of  the  Scottish  aunt  and 
the  playfellow  cousins,  of  the  dark  pools  of  Tay,  of  the  path 
above  them,  "  being  seldom  traversed  by  us  children,  except 
at  harvest-time,  when  we  used  to  go  gleaning  in  the  fields 
beyond."  "I  hesitate  in  recording  as  a  constant  truth  for 
the  world  the  impression  left  on  me,  when  I  went  gleaning 
with  Jessie,  that  Scottish  sheaves  are  more  golden  than  are 
found  in  other  lands,  and  that  no  harvests  elsewhere  visible 
to  human  eyes  are  so  like  the  corn  of  heaven*  as  those  of 
Strath  Tay  and  Strath  Earn." 

Was  ever  story  more  simple,  more  pathetic,  than  the  story 
of  little  Peter  and  his  mother !  "  My  aunt,  a  pure  dove- 
priestess,  if  ever  there  was  one,  of  Highland  Dodona,  was 
of  a  far  gentler  temper,  but  still  to  me  remained  at  a  wistful 
distance.  She  had  been  much  saddened  by  the  loss  of 
three  of  her  children  before  her  husband's  death.  Little 
Peter  especially  had  been  the  corner-stone  of  her  love's 
building ;  and  it  was  thrown  down  swiftly.  White-swelling 
came  in  the  knee ;  he  suffered  much,  and  grew  weaker  grad- 
ually, dutiful  always,  and  loving,  and  wholly  patient.  She 
wanted  him  one  day  to  take  half  a  glass  of  port-wine,  and 
took  him  on  her  knee  and  put  it  to  his  lips.  '  Not  now, 
mamma ;  in  a  minute,'  said  he,  and  put  his  head  on  her 
shoulder,  and  gave  one  long,  low  sigh,  and  died." 


*  Psalms,  Ixxviii.,  24. 
88 


Little  Peter's  mother  followed  him  before  many  years,  and 
the  rest  of  her  children  having  passed  one  by  one  through 
the  dark  river,  Mary,  the  only  survivor,  comes  to  live  in  the 
Ruskin  household,  "  a  serene  additional  neutral  tint "  in 
the  home. 

The  two  children  read  the  Bible  together,  write  abstracts 
of  the  sermons  in  the  chapel  at  Walworth,  which  they  at- 
tend. On  the  Sundays  when  the  family  remain  at  home 
the  father  reads  Blair's  sermons  aloud,  or  if  a  clerk  or  cus- 
tomer dines  with  them,  "the  conversation  in  mere  necessary 
courtesy  would  take  the  direction  of  sherry"  (Dickens  him- 
self might  have  envied  this  touch),  while  the  two  children 
sit  silent  in  their  corner  with  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  and 
Quarles's  Emblems  and  Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs  to  pass  the 
time. 

On  week-days  John,  who  is  now  ten  years  old,  is  learning 
Greek  with  Dr.  Andrews,  copying  Cruikshank's  illustrations, 
and  writing  English  doggerel. 

When  Ruskin  was  turned  twelve  his  mother  had  taken 
him  six  times  through  the  Bible  ;  he  had  had  various  clas- 
sical masters,  drawing  masters,  and  other  teachers ;  he  had 
begun  to  study  mineralogy,  was  allowed  to  taste  wine,  to 
go  to  a  theatre,  and  on  festive  days  to  dine  with  his  father 
and  mother,  and  to  listen  to  his  father's  reading  of  the 
Nodes  Ambrosiantz  and  of  Byron.  On  Ruskin's  thirteenth 
birthday  his  father's  partner,  Mr.  Henry  Telford,  gives  him 
Rogers's  Italy,  with  its  illustrations,  and,  so  he  says,  de- 
termined the  main  tenor  of  his  life.  "  The  drawing-master 
had  vaguely  stated  that  the  world  had  been  greatly  dazzled 
and  led  away  by  some  splendid  ideas  thrown  out  by  Turner, 
but  until  then  Turner  had  not  existed  for  the  quiet  family 
on  Herne  Hill." 

Besides  all  these  rising  interests  there  are  also  the  de- 
scriptions of  the  people  (not  very  numerous)  who  begin  to 


cross  the  stage,  we  get  glimpses  of  the  neighbors,  and  we 
seem  to  know  them  as  we  know  the  people  out  of  Vanity 
Fair,  or  out  of  Miss  Austen's  novels :  Mr.  Telford,  the 
owner  of  the  travelling  carriage  and  the  giver  of  illustrated 
books ;  the  two  clerks  at  their  work — Henry  Ritchie,  who 
loves  Margate — (If  you  want  to  be  happy,  get  a  wife  and 
come  to  Margate,  he  writes) — and  Henry  Watson  and  his 
musical  sisters.  Then  there  is  Miss  Andrews,  who  sang 
"Tambourgi,  Tambourgi;"  old  Mrs.  Munroe,  with  Petite, 
her  white  poodle ;  and  her  daughter  Mrs.  Richard  Gray, 
"entirely  simple,  meek,  loving,  and  serious,  saved  from  be- 
ing stupid  by  a  vivid  nature  full  of  enthusiasm,  like  her  hus- 
band's." It  is  English  middle-class  life  for  the  most  part, 
described  with  something  of  George  Eliot's  racy  reality. 


VII 


IN  the  early  chapters  of  Prczterita  there  is  the  story  of 
Ruskin's  first  acquaintance  with  the  enchanting  Domecq 
family,  which  played  so  important  a  part  in  his  young  life — 
the  four  girls  who,  arriving  unexpectedly,  reduced  him  "to 
a  heap  of  white  ashes,"  which  mercredi  des  cendres,  we  read, 
lasted  four  years.  We  are  not  exactly  told  which  of  the 
sisters — whether  Adele,  the  graceful  blonde  of  fifteen,  Ce- 
cile,  the  dark-eyed,  finely  browed  girl  of  thirteen,  or  Elise 
or  little  Caroline  of  eleven,  was  the  chief  favorite.  They 
had  all  been  born  abroad  ;  they  spoke  Spanish  and  French 
with  perfect  grace,  English  with  broken  precision ;  he  de- 
scribes "  a  Southern  Cross  of  unconceived  stars  floating  on 
a  sudden  into  my  obscure  firmament  of  a  London  suburb." 

The  writer  can  picture  to  herself  something  of  the  charm 


of  these  most  charming  sisters,  for  once  by  chance,  travel- 
ling on  Lake  Leman,  she  found  herself  watching  a  lady 
who  sat  at  the  steamer's  end,  a  beautiful  young  woman,  all 
dressed  in  pale  gray,  with  a  long  veil  floating  on  the  wind, 
who  sat  motionless  and  absorbed,  looking  towards  the  dis- 
tant hills,  not  unlike  the  vision  of  some  guiding,  wistful 
Ariel  at  the  prow,  while  the  steamer  sped  its  way  between 
the  banks.  The  story  of  the^  French  sisters  has  gained  an 
added  interest  from  the  remembrance  of  those  dark,  lovely 
eyes,  that  charming  countenance,  for  afterwards,  when  I 
knew  her  better,  the  lady  told  me  that  her  mother  had  been 
a  Domecq,  and  had  once  lived  with  her  sisters  in  Mr.  Rus- 
kin's  home.  Circumstances  had  divided  them  in  after-days, 
but  all  the  children  of  the  family  in  turn  had  been  brought 
up  to  know  Mr.  Ruskin  by  name,  and  to  love  and  appreci- 
ate his  books.  The  lady  sent  him  many  messages  by  me, 
which  I  delivered  in  after-days,  when,  alas  !  it  was  from  Mr. 
Ruskin  himself  I  learned  that  the  beautiful  traveller — Isa- 
belle,  he  called  her — had  passed  away  before  her  time  to 
those  distant  hills  where  all  our  journeys  end. 

Ruskin's  jubilee  should  be  counted  from  the  year  1833, 
when  he  tells  us  he  went  with  his  father  to  a  shop  to  enter 
their  names  as  subscribers  to  Prout's  Sketches  in  Flanders 
and  Italy,  and  they  were  shown  the  specimen  print  of  the 
turreted  window  over  the  Moselle  at  Coblentz.  "We  got 
the  book  home  to  Herne  Hill  before  the  time  of  our  usual 
annual  tour,  and  as  my  mother  watched  my  father's  pleas- 
ure and  mine  in  looking  at  the  wonderful  places,  she  said, 
why  should  not  we  go  and  see  some  of  them  in  reality?  My 
father  hesitated  a  little,  and  then,  with  glittering  eyes,  said, 
why  not  ?"  How  plainly  one  can  see  the  picture  !  The  little 
family  assembled  in  its  quiet  after-dinner  conclave,  the  boy 
turning  over  the  pages  of  his  book,  the  father  opening  the 
big  map,  the  practical  mother  transforming  dreams  into  re- 


ality.     Quiet  and  monotonous  lives  lend  themselves  more 
readily  than  more  brilliant  existences  to  possibilities,  to  im 
mense  events,  and  this  was  an  event  for  all  the  world  as  well 
as  for  the  Ruskin  family. 

Was  there  ever,  will  there  ever  be  such  a  journey  again, 
such  a  combination  of  comfort,  of  dawning  genius,  of  actual 
dignity  and  leisure,  of  eyes  to  see,  of  wheels  to  roll  smoothly 
along  the  broad  roads  ?  The  child  no  longer  sits  perched 
on  his  improvised  little  bracket-seat,  but  is  one  of  a  digni- 
fied family  with  a  maid  and  courier  travelling  as  quickly  as 
four  horses  and  postilions  in  huge  boots  can  carry  them 
towards  the  wonder-land  beyond  the  horizon,  that  country 
of  vines,  of  distant  Alpine  ranges,  of  cloud  and  sky  and 
mountain  pass,  of  fair  city  and  glorious  art. 

He  says:  "We  found  our  pleasant  rooms  always  ready, 
our  good  horses  always  waiting ;  everybody  took  their  hats 
off  when  we  arrived  and  when  we  departed  ;  Salvador  pre- 
sented his  accounts  weekly,  and  they  were  settled  without  a 
word  of  demur.  To  all  these  conditions  of  luxury  and  felic- 
ity can  the  modern  steam-puffed  tourist  conceive  the  added 
and  culminating  one  that  we  were  never  in  a  hurry?" 

The  story  of  Ruskin's  first  sight  of  the  Alps  is  one  that 
no  one  who  has  ever  seen  a  snowy  range  will  pass  over  or 
forget. 

"We  dined  at  four  as  usual,  and  the  evening  being  en- 
tirely fine,  went  out  to  walk,  all  of  us — my  father  and  mother 
and  Mary  and  I. 

"We  must  have  still  spent  some  time  in  town-seeing, 
for  it  was  drawing  towards  sunset  when  we  got  up  to  some 
garden  promenade,  west  of  the  town,  I  believe,  and  high 
above  the  Rhone,  so  as  to  command  the  open  country 
across  it  to  the  south  and  west,  when  suddenly — behold — 
beyond.  There  was  no  thought  in  any  of  us  for  a  moment 
of  their  being  clouds.  They  were  clear  as  crystal,  sharp  on 

94 


the  pure  horizon  sky,  and  already  tinged  with  rose  by  the 
sinking  sun.  Infinitely  beyond  all  that  we  had  ever  thought 
or  dreamed,  the  seen  walls  of  Eden  could  not  have  been 
more  beautiful  to  us  ;  not  more  awful  round  heaven  the 
walls  of  sacred  Death.  .  .  .  Thus  in  perfect  health  of  life 
and  fire  of  heart,  not  wanting  to  have  anything  more  than  I 
had,  knowing  of  sorrow  only  just  so  much  as  to  make  life 
serious  to  me,  not  enough  to  slacken  in  the  least  its  sinews, 
and  with  so  much  of  science  mixed  with  feeling  as  to  make 
the  sight  of  the  Alps  not  only  the  revelation  of  the  beauty 
of  the  earth,  but  the  opening  of  the  first  page  of  its  volume, 
I  went  down  that  evening  from  the  garden  terrace  of  Schaff- 
hausen  with  my  destiny  fixed  in  all  of  it  that  was  to  be  most 
sacred  and  useful.  To  that  terrace  and  to  the  shore  of  the 
Lake  of  Geneva  my  heart  and  faith  return  to  this  day  in 
every  impulse  that  is  yet  nobly  alive  in  them,  and  every 
thought  that  has  in  it  help  or  peace." 

It  would  be  too  long  to  transcribe  at  length,  as  one  would 
like  to  do,  the  pages  of  Praterita  which  take  us  from  one 
lovely  height  to  another,  from  summer  to  summer,  from 
Schaffhausen  to  Milan,  to  the  "  encompassing  Alps,  the  per- 
fectness  and  purity  of  the  sweet,  stately,  stainless  marble 
against  the  sky." 

We  all  build  tabernacles  here  and  there  in  life.  It  was 
on  the  Col  de  la  Faucille  that  John  Ruskin  erected  h'is  in 


"The  Col  de  la  Faucille  on  that  day  opened  to  me  in 
distinct  vision  the  Holy  Land  of  my  future  work  and  true 
home  in  this  world,"  he  says.  "  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
—  that  land  and  its  moving  or  pausing  waters  ;  Arve,  and 
his  gates  of  Cluse,  and  his  glacier  fountains  ;  Rhone,  and 
the  infinitude  of  his  sapphire  lake,  his  peace  beneath  the 
narcissus  meads  of  Vevay,  his  cruelty  beneath  the  promon- 
tories of  Sierre.  And  all  that  rose  against  and  melted  into 

95 


the  sky,  of  mountain  and  mountain  snow ;  and  all  that 
living  plain,  burning  with  human  gladness,  studded  with 
white  houses,  a  Milky  Way  of  star  dwellings  cast  across  its 
sunlit  blue."* 

And  so  we  are  able  to  follow  the  child  year  by  year ;  we 
see  little  John  grow  from  out  his  blue  shoes  and  ribbons, 
via  frilled  collars  and  boyish  buttons,  to  rustling  dignities  of 
silken  robe  and  tasselled  cap,  and  promoted  from  his  niche 
behind  the  drawing-room  chimney-piece  to  the  run  of  all  the 
cloisters  of  Oxford.  His  father  meanwhile  returns  con- 
tentedly to  his  desk  opposite  the  brick  wall,  where  he  sits 

*  The  following  fac-simile  note  in  allusion  to  the  above  was  written  long  after: 


quietly  amassing  the  fortune  he  spends  so  generously  and 
in  so  liberal  a  spirit. 

The  history  of  the  Turners  is  also  to  be  noted  :  of  the 
collection  gradually  increasing ;  of  the  father's  pleasure,  of 
the  son's  delight,  in  the  pictures  of  Richmond  Bridge  and 
Gosport ;  in  the  drawing  of  Winchelsea,  "the  chief  recrea- 
tion of  my  fatigued  hours."  Sir  John  Simon  tells  a  story 
of  a  visit  Ruskin  once  paid  to  a  sale  of  pictures,  and  of  his 
return  home  dispirited,  saying  there  was  but  one  picture  he 
had  wanted  in  the  whole  collection,  and  that  one  was  already 
sold.  And  there  it  was  before  him.  It  was  his  father  who 
had  bought  it,  thinking  it  was  one  he  would  be  sure  to  de- 
light in.  Ruskin  the  elder  must  have  had  a  most  unerring 
and  remarkable  critical  faculty,  and  it  was  undoubtedly 
from  him  that  John  Ruskin  inherited  his  own  genius  for  art. 
There  is  the  record  of  the  paternal  gift  of  £200  a  year  in 
the  funds  upon  the  son's  coming  of  age,  out  of  which  an- 
other Turner  is  bought  for  £70.  "  It  was  not  a  piece  of 
painted  paper,  but  a  Welsh  castle  and  village  and  Snowdon 
in  blue  cloud  that  I  bought  for  my  seventy  pounds." 


VIII 

RUSKIN  was  entered  as  Gentleman-Commoner  at  Christ- 
church,  Oxford,  and  came  up  in  January,  1837.  "  I  was 
entered  as  Gentleman- Commoner  without  further  debate, 
and  remember  still  as  if  it  were  yesterday  the  pride  of 
walking  out  of  the  Angel  Hotel  and  past  University  Col- 
lege, holding  my  father's  arm,  in  my  velvet  cap  and  silk 
gown." 

The  father  and  mother  had  set  their  hearts  on  his  going 

G  97 


into  the  Church.  He  would  have  made  a  bishop,  said  his 
father  long  years  after,  with  tears  in  his  eyes ;  and  we  may 
read  now,  indeed,  of  the  first  sermon  Ruskin  ever  preached, 
a  baby  one,  in  which  he  describes  himself  as  standing  up 
with  a  red  cushion  before  him,  and  thumping  and  preach- 
ing "People  be  good."* 

Ruskin  remained  at  Oxford  until  1840.  The  story  of 
his  stay  there,  of  his  work,  of  his  friends,  is  all  delightful 
reading ;  not  the  least  touching  part  of  it  all  is  the  account 
of  his  mother  (with  his  father's  entire  acquiescence)  leaving 
her  home,  her  daily  habits,  and  establishing  herself  in  lodg- 
ings in  the  Oxford  High  Street,  so  as  to  be  at  hand  in  case 
of  need.  Ruskin's  own  filial  devotion  is  also  to  be  admired. 
He  tells  us  that  his  wishes  and  his  happiness  were  the  chief 
preoccupations  of  their  lives,  and  he  accepts  the  loving  tie 
generously,  as  all  sons  do  not.  Speaking  of  his  degree, 
Ruskin  says  :  "  When  I  was  sure  I  had  got  through,  I  went 
out  for  a  walk  in  the  fields  north  of  New  College  (since 
turned  into  the  Parks),  happy  in  the  sense  of  recovered 
freedom,  but  extremely  doubtful  to  what  use  I  should  put 
it.  There  1  was  at  two -and -twenty,  with  such  and  such 
powers,  all  second-rate  except  the  analytical  ones,  which 
were  as  much  in  embryo  as  the  rest,  and  which  I  had  no 
means  of  measuring;  such  and  such  likings  hitherto  in- 
dulged rather  against  conscience,  and  a  dim  sense  of  duty 
to  myself,  my  parents,  and  a  daily  more  vague  shadow  of 
Eternal  Law.  What  should  I  be  or  do  ?"  This  question 
was  to  be  answered  very  shortly  by  publication  of  the  first 
volume  of  Modern  Painters.  Before  coming  away  from  Ox- 
ford I  must  not  omit  to  quote  a  curious  passage  concerning 
Dean  Liddell,  "  one  of  the  rarest  types  of  nobly  presenced 
Englishmen,  the  only  man  in  Oxford  in  his  day  who  cared 

*  Nor,  indeed,  has  he  happily  ceased  to  preach  this  sermon,  the  text  of  which  brings 
back  to  one's  mind  the  touching  words  of  dying  Scott. 

98 


about  art,  and  whose  '  keen  '  saying  concerning  Turner, '  that 
he  had  got  hold  of  a  false  ideal,'  "  is  here  noted  (curiously 
enough)  by  Ruskin  as  one  which  would  have  been  eminently 
helpful  to  him  at  the  time,  had  it  been  then  impressed  upon 
him.  After  that  we  come  to  the  history  of  that  illness  after 
overwork  which  sent  Ruskin  and  his  parents  abroad  again 
for  an  indefinite  period,  travelling  away  by  Rouen  and  Tours, 
by  the  Rhone  to  Avignon,  thence  by  the  Riviera  to  Florence 
and  the  South,  in  search  of  health.  There  is  also  this  epi- 
taph upon  Oxford  :  "  Oxford  taught  me  as  much  Greek  as 
she  could,  and  though  I  think  she  might  have  also  told  me 
that  fritillaries  grew  in  Iffley  meadow,  it  was  better  that  she 
left  me  to  find  them  for  myself.  I  must  get  on,"  he  con- 
tinues, "  to  the  days  of  opening  sight  and  effective  labor, 
and  to  the  scenes  of  nobler  education,  which  all  men  who 
keep  their  hearts  open  receive  in  the  end  of  days." 

It  is  always  interesting  to  ascertain  when  a  great  man  be- 
gins his  life's  work ;  but,  after  all,  it  is  scarcely  the  printing 
of  the  book  or  the  framing  of  the  picture  which  puts  a  date 
to  the  hour  in  which  the  mind  ripens  or  carries  out  its  con- 
ception ;  and  the  casual  mention  in  Prizterita  of  the  publi- 
cation of  Modern  Painters  shows  how  much  of  thought  and 
feeling  had  already  gone  towards  the  book,  of  which  the  act- 
ual publishing  seemed  the  least  memorable  part  to  the  au- 
thor. Speaking  of  the  first  volume  of  Modern  Painters,  he 
only  says:  "It  took  the  best  part  of  the  winter's  leisure," 
and  dismisses  the  subject  with,  "  The  said  first  volume  must 
have  been  out  by  my  father's  birthday ;  its  success  was  as- 
sured by  the  end  of  the  year." 

The  book  made  its  mark  then  and  there.  Those  qualities 
which  Ruskin  prefers  to  call  his  analytical  qualities  seem  to 
others  to  be  a  happy  combination  of  intuition,  of  industry, 
and  vivid  imagination.  Though  the  graduate's  principles 
and  teachings  were  variously  esteemed,  every  one  acknowl- 


edged  their  importance,  and  it  seems  but  justice  to  Mr. 
Ruskin  to  suggest  that  he  was  not  altogether  accountable 
for  the  seriousness  with  which  his  admirers  have  sometimes 
accepted  his  eloquent  paradoxes  and  humors.  It  is  hardly 
fair,  perhaps,  to  look  back  at  the  by-gone  criticisms  of  this 
startling  and  eloquent  publication.  Reviewers  writing  long 
after,  with  experience  and  knowledge  of  the  road,  can  drive 
their  team  steadily,  cracking  their  long  whips  with  a  sense 
of  dignity  and  final  authority  which  is  admirable  for  retro- 
spective commonplace ;  but  how  are  they  to  rein  in  a  Pe- 
gasus who  has  inadvertently  found  himself  harnessed  to  the 
old  coach,  and  who  puts  out  his  wings  and  flies  straight  up 
into  the  air  ?  Pegasus  in  his  flight  does  not  hesitate  to  kick 
out  right  and  left,  overturning  as  he  goes  the  various  "  Van 
Somethings  and  Bac  Somethings,"  with  other  shrines  that 
we  would  more  gladly  sacrifice.  Blackwood  of  those  days 
took  up  the  battle  in  an  overbearing  and  angry  spirit.  The 
reviewer  comes  to  the  defence  of  the  giants  and  windmills 
this  new  Don  Quixote  is  attacking  right  and  left — Claude, 
Salvator,  Cuyp,  Berghem,  Ruysdael,  etc.  "You  cannot 
judge  with  judgment  if  you  have  not  the  sun  in  your  spirit 
and  passion  in  your  heart,"  cries  the  young  champion,  deal- 
ing his  thrusts.  But  this  is  not  language  to  be  applied  to 
such  authorities  as  those  of  Blackwood  then,  or  perhaps  of 
the  Edinburgh  nowadays  ;  and  the  critics  in  return  strike  at 
the  graduate  with  the  sun  in  their  eyes,  and  with  passion  in 
their  words  if  not  in  their  hearts. 

A  second  article  which  appeared  in  Blackwood  some  years 
later  was  far  more  within  the  limits  of  fair  and  measured 
criticism,  allowing  the  book  to  be  the  work  of  a  man  of 
power,  thinking  independently,  feeling  strongly,  and  with 
"  a  mortal  aversion  to  be  in  a  crowd."  Meanwhile  Fraser, 
in  its  article  on  the  second  edition,  declares  that  "  the  Ox- 
ford graduate  has  sought  a  reputation  even  in  the  cannon's 


mouth,  has  scaled  the  wall  of  the  Castle  of  Prejudice,  and 
from  its  embattled  parapet  waves  us  to  follow."  The  grad- 
uate's volume  "  prompts  us  to  leave  the  conventional  for 
the  true,  and  quitting  the  cant  of  gallery  connoisseurship,  to 
find  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks,  sermons 
in  stones,  and  good  in  everything."  From  the  Ethics  of  the 
Dust  to  the  Stones  of  Venice,  from  the  Springs  of  Wandel  to 
Deucalion,  there  is  nothing  which  has  once  attracted  him 
which  he  does  not  study  with  love  and  intuition,  nothing  he 
does  not  use  with  admiration.  This  applies  most  especially 
to  his  love  for  Nature.  For  the  more  human  part  in  art  his 
feeling  is  different  altogether,  and  there  his  instinct  for  de- 
struction is  often  as  fierce  as  his  gift  for  construction  is  ex- 
quisite when  he  treats  of  Nature  and  her  silent  belongings. 


IX 


THE  writer  of  this  little  essay  certainly  cannot  pretend 
either  to  the  knowledge  or  to  the  infallibility  of  an  art  critic, 
and  she  has  therefore  ventured  to  take  Ruskin  from  her  own 
point  of  view  only,  as  a  "Light-bearer,"  as  a  writer  of  the 
English  language,  as  a  poet  in  his  own  measure.  How  is  it 
possible  to  a  man  writing,  as  he  says,  "with  passion,"  with  all 
the  vibrating  chords  of  a  thousand  interests  and  revelations, 
to  be  the  temperate  and  dispassionate  awarder  of  that  bare 
justice  which  is  all  an  orthodox  critic  should  bestow  ?  Many 
things,  indeed,  leave  him  altogether  silent  and  apparently 
irresponsive;  he  does  not  always  contradict  the  verdict  of 
generations,  but  he  accepts  it  without  enthusiasm.  The  in- 
stinctive form  which  beauty  takes  for  him  is  that  of  Nature 
and  her  direct  influence  upon  himself.  His  attitude  towards 


Greek  art  is  curiously  characteristic  of  this ;  so  were  his 
first  impressions  of  Rome. 

Very  long  afterwards  Ruskin  said  of  his  mother's  house- 
keeping arrangements  :  "  I  don't  think  the  reader  has  yet 
been  informed  that  I  inherited  to  the  full  my  mother's  love  of 
tidiness  and  cleanliness,  and  that  in  Switzerland,  next  to  her 
eternal  snows,  what  I  most  admired  was  her  white  sleeves." 

Was  it  Ruskin's  love  of  order,  then,  which  caused  him  to 
suffer  so  much  in  Rome,  where  he  waywardly  painted  the 
rags  fluttering  in  a  by-street,  and  would  not  give  a  thought 
to  the  ancient  churches  and  statues  and  pictures  and  ruins  ? 
Was  it  his  love  of  tidiness  or  his  sincerity  which  made  him 
at  first  write  almost  cruelly  of  Italy,  of  Florence,  and  of  the 
Uffizi,  of  Siena  and  its  cathedral,  "costly  confectionery, 
faithless  vanity  ?"  The  first  sight  of  St.  Peter's,  he  tells  us, 
was  to  him  little  more  than  a  gray  milestone,  announcing 
twenty  miles  yet  of  stony  road.  He  ascertained  that  the 
Stanze  could  not  give  him  any  pleasure.  "  What  the  Fo- 
rum or  Capitol  had  been  he  did  not  in  the  least  care.  Raph- 
ael's 'Transfiguration  '  and  Domenichino's  '  St.  Jerome  '  he 
pronounced,  without  the  smallest  hesitation  —  Domenichi- 
no's a  bad  picture,  and  Raphael's  an  ugly  one  "  (which  ver- 
dict I  can  remember  my  own  father  indorsing,  as  far  as  the 
Raphael  was  concerned).  I  ought  also  in  fairness  to  add 
that,  later  on,  many  of  Ruskin's  unqualified  early  criticisms 
are  entirely  modified  and  swept  away. 

For  the  second  volume  of  Modern  Painters,  "not  meant 
to  be  in  the  least  like  what  it  is,"  Ruskin  wanted  "  more 
Chamouni ;"  and  further  on,  feeling  that  he  must  know 
more  of  Italy,  see  Pau  and  Florence  again,  before  writing 
another  word,  he  tells  his  indulgent  parents  of  his  wish. 
Turner,  of  all  people,  strongly  opposed  the  journey,  the 
Continent  being  then  in  an  angry  and  disturbed  condition ; 
but  papa  and  mamma  seem  to  have  agreed.  And  so  the 


new  life  began  for  him  as  we  read  in  the  chapters  headed 
Campo  Santo  and  Macugnaga.  "  Serious,  enthusiastic, 
worship  and  wonder  and  work  ,•  up  at  six,  drawing,  study- 
ing, thinking;  breaking  bread  and  drinking  wine  at  inter- 
vals :  homeward  the  moment  the  sun  went  down."  "  The 
days  that  began  in  the  cloister  of  the  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa 
ended  by  my  getting  upon  the  roof  of  Santa  Maria  della 
Spina,  and  sitting  in  the  sunlight  that  tranfused  the  warm 
marble  of  its  pinnacles  till  the  unabated  brightness  went 
down  beyond  the  arches  of  the  Ponte  a  Mare,  the  few  foot- 
steps and  voices  of  the  twilight  silent  in  the  streets,  and 
the  city  and  her  mountains  stood  mute  as  a  dream  beyond 
the  soft  eddying  of  Arno."  We  may  judge  by  these  illus- 
trations to  his  life  what  sort  of  material  it  was  that  Ruskin 
himself  put  into  his  noble  books. 

It  was  between  the  publication  of  the  first  and  second 
volumes  of  Modern  Painters  that  Ruskin  came  under  Car- 
lyle's  influence.  Long  years  afterwards  Carlyle  himself, 
writing  to  Emerson,  says:  "There  is  nothing  going  on 
among  us  as  notable  to  me  as  those  fierce  lightning-bolts 
Ruskin  is  copiously  and  desperately  pouring  into  the  black 
world  of  Anarchy  all  around  him.  No  other  man  in  Eng- 
land that  I  meet  has  in  him  the  divine  rage  against  iniquity, 
falsity,  and  baseness  that  Ruskin  has,  and  that  every  man 
ought  to  have.  Unhappily  he  is  not  a  strong  man— one 
might  say  a  weak  man  rather — and  has  not  the  least  pru- 
dence of  management,  though  if  he  can  hold  out  for  anoth- 
er fifteen  years  or  so,  he  may  produce,  even  in  this  way, 
a  great  effect  or  so.  God  grant  it,  say  I." 

I  heard  a  pretty  account  once  from  Mr.  Alfred  Lyttel- 
ton  of  a  visit  paid  by  Ruskin  to  Carlyle  in  the  familiar 
room  in  Cheyne  Walk,  With  the  old  picture  of  Cromwell  on 
the  wall,  and  Mrs.  Carlyle's  little  tables  and  pretty  knick- 
knacks  still  in  their  quiet  order.  Mr.  Ruskin  had  been  ill 

103 


not  long  before,  and  as  he  talked  on  of  something  he  cared 
about,  Mr.  Lyttelton  said  his  eyes  lighted  up,  and  he  seem- 
ed agitated  and  moved.  Carlyle  stopped  him  short,  saying 
the  subject  was  too  interesting.  "You  must  take  care,"  he 
said,  with  that  infinite  kindness  which  Carlyle  could  show ; 
"  you  will  be  making  yourself  ill  once  more."  And  Ruskin, 
quite  simply,  like  a  child,  stopped  short.  "  You  are  right," 
he  said,  calling  Carlyle  "  master,"  and  then  went  on  to  talk 
of  something  else,  as  dull,  no  doubt,  as  anything  could  be 
that  Ruskin  and  Carlyle  could  talk  about  together. 

In  the  first  volume  of  Praterita  there  is  one  particular 
passage  about  Carlyle  to  which  many  of  us  will  demur. 

Ruskin  himself  this  time  is  now  quoting  from  the  Emer- 
son correspondence,  and  he  says:  "I  find  at  page  18  this 
to  me  entirely  disputable,  and  to  my  thought,  so  far  as  un- 
disputed, much  blamable  and  pitiable  exclamation  of  my 
master's :  '  Not  till  we  can  think  that  here  and  there  one 
is  thinking  of  us,  one  is  loving  us,  does  this  waste  earth 
become  a  peopled  garden.'  My  training,  as  the  reader  has 
perhaps  enough  perceived,  produced  in  me  the  precisely 
opposite  sentiment.  My  times  of  happiness  had  always 
been  when  nobody  was  thinking  of  me.  .  .  .  The  garden  at 
home  was  no  waste  place  to  me  because  I  did  not  suppose 
myself  an  object  of  interest  either  to  the  ants  or  the  but- 
terflies, and  the  only  qualification  of  the  delight  of  my  even- 
ing walk  at  Champagnole  was  the  sense  that  my  father  and 
mother  were  thinking  of  me,  and  would  be  frightened  if  I 
was  ten  minutes  late  for  tea.  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  mean  in  the  least  that  I  could  have  done  with- 
out them.  They  were  to  me  much  more  than  Carlyle's  wife 
to  him.  .  .  .  But  that  the  rest  of  the  world  was  waste  to  him 
unless  he  had  admirers  in  it  is  a  sorry  state  of  sentiment 
enough,  and  I  am  somewhat  tempted  for  once  to  admire 
the  exactly  opposite  temper  of  my  own  solitude.  My  en- 


tire  delight  was  in  observing  without  being  observed  ;  if  I 
could  have  been  invisible,  all  the  better.  I  was  absolutely 
interested  in  men  and  in  their  ways  as  I  was  interested  in 
marmots  and  chamois  and  in  trouts.  .  .  .  The  living  habita- 
tion of  the  world,  the  grazing  and  nesting  in  it,  the  spirit- 
ual power  of  the  air,  the  rocks,  the  waters — to  be  in  the 
midst  of  it,  and  rejoice,  and  wonder  at ; ...  this  was  the 
essential  love  of  nature  in  me,  this  the  root  of  all  that  I 
have  usefully  become." 

As  I  have  already  said,  this  peculiar  sense  of  solemn 
responsibility  to  nature  and  to  mankind,  and  irresponsibil- 
ity to  individuals,  is  most  specially  to  be  noted  in  Ruskin  ; 
more  specially  in  the  young  Ruskin,  who  writes  as  people 
of  strong  imaginations  write  when  the  impulse  is  on  them, 
realizing  at  the  moment  but  one  aspect  of  a  feeling.  But 
though  he  writes  in  this  detached  and  lofty  fashion,  every 
page  of  his  memoir  vibrates  with  the  warm  light  of  a  united 
home,  where  exist  mutual  love,  confidence,  sympathy,  with- 
out which  half  the  charm  of  the  whole  picture  would  be  gone. 


AT  Macugnaga,  Ruskin,  maturing  his  second  volume, 
seems  to  have  lived  in  good  company,  with  a  couple  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  and  his  own  thoughts,  but  not  to  have 
enjoyed  his  solitude  so  much  as  might  have  been  expected 
from  his  theories.  Mr.  Boxall  and  Mr.  Hardinge  presently 
joined  him  for  a  time,  and  then  came  another  serious  ill- 
ness, after  which  the  second  volume  of  Modern  Painters  was 
published,  in  1846. 

This  second  volume  concerns  the  schools  of  Italy  and 
its  histories  of  art,  and  raised  as  much  indignation  as  the 


first  had  done,  though  less  irritation.  Critics  thanked 
Heaven  openly  that  they  were  publicans  and  still  able  to 
admire,  not  Pharisees  rejecting  right  and  left.  Then  fol- 
lowed another  beautiful  sermon  and  more  parables.  "  The 
book  I  called  The  Seven  Lamps  was  to  show  that  certain 
right  states  of  temper  and  moral  feeling  were  the  magic 
powers  by  which  all  good  architecture,  without  exception, 
had  been  produced."  The  Stones  of  Venice  appeared  be- 
tween the  years  1851  and  1853,  and  had  from  beginning 
to  end  no  other  aim  than  to  show  that  the  Gothic  archi- 
tecture of  Venice  had  arisen  out  of,  and  indicated  in  all 
its  features,  a  state  of  pure  national  faith  and  of  domestic 
virtue,  and  that  its  Renaissance  architecture  had  arisen  out 
of,  and  indicated  in  all  its  features,  a  state  of  concealed 
national  infidelity  and  of  domestic  corruption. 

Again  and  again,  as  we  read  our  Ruskin,  the  truth  of 
his  father's  saying  occurs  to  one,  "  He  should  have  been 
a  bishop  !"  Everything  has  a  moral  to  him  and  a  meaning. 
"  In  these  books  of  mine,  their  distinctive  character  as  es- 
says on  art  is  their  bringing  everything  to  a  root  in  human 
passion  or  in  human  hope,"  he  says  in  Modern  Painters 
(vol.  v.).  The  law  of  perfectness  is  one  of  his  favorite 
texts,  one  that  he  would  have  us  all  pursue.  He  culls  and 
he  chooses  at  will,  dwelling  upon  each  detail  which  illus- 
trates his  own  vast  and  lovely  conception  of  things  as  they 
should  be — as  they  might  be  for  us  if  we  were  all  Ruskins ; 
and  the  chief  danger  for  his  disciples  is  that  of  seeing  de- 
tails too  vividly,  and  missing  the  whole.  There  is  also  all 
the  extraordinary  influence  of  his  personality  in  his  teach- 
ing. Oracles  such  as  Mill  and  Spencer  veil  their  faces 
when  they  utter.  Poets  and  orators  like  Ruskin  uncover 
their  heads  as  they  address  their  congregations. 

Ruskin  has  not  only  words  at  his  command,  but  deli- 
cate hands.  Look  at  the  sketches  and  drawings  in  the 

106 


latter  volumes  of  Modern  Painters.  How  eloquent  and 
graceful  they  are,  whether  it  is  indicated  motion  or  shad- 
ow, whether  clouds  or  spiral  leaf  and  upspringing  branch  ! 

When  Ruskin  records  his  past,  it  is  as  often  as  not  by 
the  sketches  he  has  taken  along  the  way  that  he  marks  his 
progress.  And  how  true  the  saying  is  that  nothing  else — no 
descriptions — ever  bring  back  a  former  state  of  mind  and  be- 
ing as  an  old  sketch  will  do  !  Sometimes  one's  old  self  actual- 
ly seems  to  come  up  and  take  it  out  of  one's  hand.  Only  last 
night,  apropos  of  these  sketches  of  Ruskin's,  and  of  a  new 
portfolio  of  them  lately  published,  I  heard  no  less  an  author- 
ity than  the  Slade  Professor  at  Cambridge  saying  that,  with 
all  the  credit  Professor  Ruskin  has  justly  won  as  a  master  of 
English  diction,  he  has  scarcely  gained  as  much  as  he  de- 
served for  the  exquisite  character  of  his  actual  drawing. 

As  one  looks  down  the  list  of  Ruskin's  writings*  one  can 

*  It  may  be  convenient  to  give  the  following  list  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  works,  taken 
from  Men  of  the  Time,  and  from  the  fly-leaves  of  Mr.  George  Allen  : 


Poems.     Friendship's  Offering.     1835    to 

1843- 

Modern  Painters.     Vol.  I.,  1843. 

Modern  Painters.     Vol.  II.,  1846. 

Art.  Quarterly  Review,  June,  1847,  Lord 
Lindsay's  Christian  Art  March,  1848, 
Eastlake  on  the  History  of  Painting. 

Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture. 

King  of  the  Golden  River.  1849.  Illus- 
trated by  R.  Doyle. 

Stones  of  Venice.   Vol.  III., '51-' 53.    1851. 

Lectures  on  Architecture  and  Painting. 
1853. 

Giotto  and  his  Works  in  Padua,  1854,  for 
the  Arundel  Society. 

Notes  on  the  Royal  Academy.  Five  parts. 
1855  to  1859. 

Modern  Painters.     Vol.  III.,  1856. 

Modern  Painters.     Vol.  IV.,  1856. 

Notes  on  the  Turner  Collection.     1857. 

Political  Economy  of  Art.  1857.  Two 
Lectures.  1859-1860. 

The  Two  Paths.     (Lectures  on  Art.) 

Modern  Painters.     Vol.  V.,  1860. 

Sir  Joshua  Holbein.  Cornhlll  Magazine. 
1860. 


Unto    this    Last.       Cornhill    Magazine. 

1860-1862. 
Munera    Pulveris.      Frazer's    Magazine. 

1862-1863. 
Notes  on  the  Alps. 
Cestus  of  Aglaia.     1865. 
Sesame  and  Lilies.     1865. 
Ethics  of  the  Dust.     1865. 
Crown  of  Wild  Olive.     1866. 
Time  and  Tide  by  Wear  and  Tyne. 
Queen  of  the  Air.     1869. 
Lectures  on  Art.     1871  to  1878. 
Fors  Clavigera. 
Aratra  Pentelice.     1872. 
The    Relation   between   Michael   Angelo 

and  Tintoret.     1872. 
The  Eagle's  Nest.     1872. 
Ariadne  Florentina.     1873-1876. 
Love's  Meinie.     1873. 
Val  d'  Arno.     1874. 
Proserpina.     1875-1876. 
Deucalion.     1875-1878. 
Mornings  in  Florence.     1875-1877. 
Bibliotheca  Pastorum.     1877. 
Praeterita.     (Still  publishing.)     1888. 


roughly  read  the  story  of  his  life.  In  the  early  numbers  of 
the  Cornhill  Magazine  his  papers  on  political  economy  ap- 
peared, and  it  must  have  been  about  that  time  that  he  en- 
tered into  his  partnership  with  Miss  Octavia  Hill,  resulting 
in  one  of  the  most  important  and  interesting  movements  of 
the  day. 

There  is  a  short  article  by  Miss  Hill  in  a  by-gone  Fort- 
nightly Review,  describing  the  beginning  of  what  has  led  to 
so  much.  The  article  is  called  "  Cottage  Property  in  Lon- 
don." The  said  cottages,  begrimed,  and  overcrowded  by 
the  dreary  London  peasantry,  were  whitewashed  and  drain- 
ed with  the  help  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  ,£700,  and  relet  again  by 
Miss  Hill  to  the  poor  people  themselves,  of  whom  she  al- 
ways writes  with  admirable  discernment  and  sympathy. 
As  she  tells  of  her  tenants,  of  their  fortitude,  their  power 
of  hope,  their  simple,  entire  confidence,  their  extraordinary 
patience,  Miss  Hill  speaks  with  the  knowledge  that  people 
bring  whose  genius  is  in  the  work  into  which  they  throw 
their  hearts,  and  Mr.  Ruskin  was  the  first  to  recognize  her 
gift. 

"  I  had  not  great  ideas  of  what  must  be  done,"  she  says. 
"  My  strongest  endeavors  were  to  be  used  to  rouse  habits 
of  industry  and  effort.  The  plan  was  one  which  depended 
on  just  governing  more  than  on  helping.  The  first  point 
was  to  secure  such  power  as  would  enable  me  to  insist  on 
some  essential  sanitary  arrangements.  I  laid  the  scheme 
before  Mr.  Ruskin,  who  entered  into  it  most  warmly.  He 
at  once  came  forward  with  all  the  money  necessary,  and 
took  the  whole  risk  of  the  undertaking  upon  himself.  He 
showed  me,  however,  that  it  would  be  far  more  useful  if  it 
could  be  made  to  pay — that  a  workingman  ought  to  be  able 
to  pay  for  his  own  house."  .  .  . 

I  found  a  letter  among  my  father's  papers  the  other  day 
which  must  have  been  written  by  Mr.  Ruskin  about  this 

108 


time,  and  as  it  bears  upon  one  of  his  many  theories,  and  is 
interesting  and  characteristic,  I  will  insert  it  here.  It  con- 
cerned an  old  friend  of  my  father's,  Monsieur  Louis  Marvy, 
who  spent  one  winter  in  Young  Street.  He  was  an  engrav- 
er by  profession ;  he  had,  as  I  believe,  been  mixed  up  in 
some  of  the  revolutionary  episodes  of  1848.  He  was  a  very 
charming  and  gentle  person,  in  delicate  health.  He  used 
to  work  hour  after  hour  at  his  plates.  He  lived  quietly  in 
our  house,  chiefly  absorbed  by  his  work.  He  died  quite 
young,  not  long  after  his  return  to  France.  Mr.  Ruskin's 
letter  refers  in  a  measure  to  this  by  -  gone  episode,  and  I 
have  his  permission  to  transcribe  it : 

"  DENMARK  HILL,  zist  December,  1860. 

"DEAR  MR.  THACKERAY, — I  think  (or  should  think  if  I  did  not 
know)  that  you  are  quite  right  in  this  general  law  about  lecturing,  though, 
until  I  knew  it,  I  did  not  feel  able  to  refuse  the  letter  of  request  asked 
of  me. 

"  The  mode  in  which  you  direct  your  charity  puts  me  in  mind  of  a 
matter  that  has  lain  long  on  my  mind,  though  I  never  have  had  the 
time  or  face  to  talk  to  you  of  it. 

"  In  somebody's  drawing-room  ages  ago  you  were  speaking  accident- 
ally of  M.  de  Marvy.  I  expressed  my  great  obligation  to  him,  on  which 
you  said  that  I  could  now  prove  my  gratitude,  if  I  chose,  to  his  widow, 
which  choice  I  then  not  accepting,  have  ever  since  remembered  the  cir- 
cumstance as  one  peculiarly  likely  to  add,  so  far  as  it  went,  to  the  gen- 
eral impression  on  your  mind  of  the  hollowness  of  people's  sayings  and 
hardness  of  their  hearts. 

"The  fact  is,  I  give  what  I  give  almost  in  an  opposite  way  to  yours. 
I  think  there  are  many  people  who  will  relieve  hopeless  distress  for  one 
who  will  help  at  a  hopeful  pinch,  and  when  I  have  choice  I  nearly  al- 
ways give  where  I  think  the  money  will  be  fruitful  rather  than  merely 
helpful.  I  would  lecture  for  a  school  when  I  would  not  for  a  distressed 
author,  and  would  have  helped  De  Marvy  to  perfect  his  invention,  but 
not — unless  I  had  no  other  object — his  widow  after  he  was  gone.  In  a 
word,  I  like  to  prop  the  falling  more  than  to  feed  the  fallen.  This,  if 
you  ever  find  out  anything  of  my  private  life,  you  will  know  to  be  true ; 

109 


but  I  shall  never  feel  comfortable,  nevertheless,  about  that  Marvy  busi- 
ness unless  you  send  to  me  for  ten  pounds  for  the  next  author,  or  artist, 
or  widow  of  either,  whom  you  want  to  help. 

"  And  with  this  weight  at  last  off  my  mind,  I  pray  you  to  believe  me 
always  faithfully,  respectfully  yours,  J.  RUSKIN. 

"  All  best  wishes  of  the  season  to  you  and  your  daughters." 

And  my  father's  daughter  may  be  perhaps  forgiven  for 
adding  that  there  are  few  among  us  who  will  not  sympa- 
thize as  much  with  Mr.  Ruskin  when  he  breaks  his  theories 
as  when  he  keeps  to  them.  I  don't  know  if  it  is  fair  to 
quote  the  story  I  heard  at  Coniston,  long  after,  of  the 
man  who  had  grossly  lied  and  cheated  at  Brantwood  for 
years,  and  whose  wages  Mr.  Ruskin  went  on  paying,  be- 
cause he  could  not  give  him  a  character,  and  could  not 
let  him  and  his  children  starve. 


XI 


IT  may  be  here  as  well  to  say  a  few  words  of  Mr.  Rus- 
kin's  public  work.  In  the  statement  of  the  purposes  of  St. 
George's  Guild  published  by  him  he  explains  the  two  chief 
objects  of  the  society : — Firstly,  agricultural  work,  reclaim- 
ing waste  lands,  and  the  encouragement  of  manual  labor 
without  the  help  of  steam  ("  a  cruel  and  furious  waste  of 
fuel  to  do  what  every  stream  and  breeze  are  ready  to  do  ") ; 
Secondly,  the  building  of  museums  and  schools  of  art  and 
study.  "  I  continually  see  subscriptions  of  ten,  fifteen,  or 
twenty  thousand  pounds  for  new  churches.  Now  a  good 
clergyman  never  wants  a  church.  He  can  say  all  his  pa- 
rishioners essentially  need  to  hear  in  any  of  his  parishion- 
ers' best  parlors  or  upper  chambers,  or,  if  these  are  not  large 


enough,  in  the  market-place  or  harvest-field.  What  does 
he  want  with  altars — was  the  Lord's  Supper  eaten  on  one  ? 
—  what  with  pews  —  useless  rents  for  the  pride  of  them; 
what  with  font  and  pulpit  that  the  next  way -side  brook 
or  mossy  bank  cannot  give  him  ?".  .  .  In  order  to  form 
wholesome  habits  they  (the  young)  must  be  placed  under 
wholesome  conditions.  For  the  pursuit  of  any  intellectual 
inquiry  to  advantage  not  only  leisure  must  be  granted  them 
but  quiet.  .  .  .  The  words  "school,"  "college,"  "univer- 
sity," rightly  understood,  imply  the  leisure  necessary  for 
learning,  the  companionship  necessary  for  sympathy,  and 
wilfulness  restrained  by  the  daily  vigilance  and  firmness  of 
tutors  and  masters. 

The  writer  has  not  seen  the  museum  at  Sheffield,  but 
happening  to  admire  the  work  of  a  young  water-color  paint- 
er only  a  day  ago,  and  to  ask  where  he  had  studied,  she  was 
told  that  he  had  studied  with  nature  for  a  teacher ;  but  that 
besides  working  in  this  great  academy  he  had  also  greatly 
profited  by  Mr.  Ruskin's  museum  at  Sheffield,  where  the 
most  interesting  and  valuable  art  treasures  are  to  be  found 
in  a  couple  of  rooms  opening  on  each  side  of  the  door  of  a 
road- side  cottage.  At  one  time  Mr.  Ruskin  intended  to 
build  an  art  museum  for  Sheffield,  and  commissioned  Mr. 
William  Marshall  to  prepare  the  plans.  I  do  not  know  why 
this  scheme  was  never  carried  beyond  the  designs.  Oxford 
first  elected  him  to  the  Slade  Professorship.  Cambridge 
also  made  signals  of  respect  and  admiration,  and  he  was 
elected  Rede  Lecturer  in  1867.  But  it  is  difficult  to  imag- 
ine Ruskin  at  Cambridge ;  Oxford  seems  to  belong  far  more 
to  his  genius,  to  his  emotional  gifts,  his  playful  mediaeval 
and  romantic  views  of  life.  I  have  heard  of  him  entertain- 
ing his  guests  as  hospitably  in  his  rooms  at  Corpus  as 
at  Brantwood  by  the  waters  of  the  lake.  A  friend  de- 
scribed to  us  the  well -served  breakfast,  ample  beyond 


all  appetite  of  host  or  guest,  and  Ruskin,  fearing  to  dis- 
appoint the  cook,  sending  friendly  and  appreciative  mes- 
sages. "  A  very  nice  relish  for  breakfast,  sir,"  says  the 
scout,  offering  some  particular  dish.  "A  very  nice  relish 
at  any  time,"  says  Ruskin,  kindly,  refusing,  "  and  tell  the 
cook  I  said  so." 

The  following  note  of  welcome  shows  what  trouble  Brant- 
wood  takes  for  its  friends : 

"  KING'S  ARMS,  LANCASTER,  Saturday. 

"  DEAR  MR.  , — I  have  left  orders  to  make  you  comfortable  ;  it 

is  just  possible,  after  these  two  days  of  darkness,  you  may  even  have  a 
gleam  of  sun  on  Monday  morning. 

"  Eleven  train  to  Carnforth  Junction,  where  change  carriages  for  Ul- 
verstone,  where  getting  out,  you  will,  I  doubt  not,  see  a  dark  post- 
chaise,  into  which  getting,  an  hour  and  a  half's  pleasant  drive  brings 
you  to  Brantwood,  where  I  hope  you  may  be  not  uncomfortable  what- 
ever the  weather. 

"  Yours  faithfully,  J.  RUSKIN." 

Not  the  least  among  Ruskin's  gifts  to  his  fellow-men  are 
the  beautiful  copies  of  beautiful  pictures  which  he  has  had 
executed  for  the  students  at  Sheffield  and  elsewhere :  the 
best  copies  that  the  best  talent  art  and  knowledge  could 
produce,  bestowed  with  like  liberality  and  sympathy  upon 
those  who  have  no  means  of  reaching  the  originals.  The 
following  letters  relating  to  this  work  will  be  found  interest- 
ing. One  is  struck  by  the  care  for  the  work  and  the  interest 
in  the  worker,  to  whose  great  kindness  I  owe  this  record : 

"  OXFORD,  zotk  May,  1873. 

"  MY  DEAR , — I  have  your  interesting  letter,  with  the  (to  me 

very  charming)  little  sketch  of  '  The  Peace.'  By  the  Virtues  on  the  left 
I  meant  what  perhaps  my  memory  fails  in  placing  there  —  on  the  left- 
hand  wall,  standing  with  your  back  to  the  window.  '  The  Peace '  is 
opposite  window,  isn't  it?  I  can  only  say,  do  any  face  that  strikes  you. 


In  this  composition  I  care  more  for  completeness  of  record  than  for  ac- 
curate copying.  There  is  nothing  in  it  that  I  esteem  exquisite  as  paint- 
ing ;  but  all  is  invaluable  as  design  and  emotion.  Do  it  as  thoroughly 
as  you  can  pleasantly  to  yourself.  For  me,  the  Justice  and  Concord  are 
the  importantest.  As  you  have  got  to  work  comfortably  on  it,  don't 
hurry.  Do  it  satisfactorily  ;  and  then  to  Assisi,  where  quite  possibly  I 
may  join  you,  though  not  for  a  month  or  six  weeks. 

"  Keep  me  well  in  knowledge  of  your  health  and  movements  (writing 
now  to  Coniston),  and  believe  me 

"  Very  faithfully  yours,  J.  RUSKIX. 

..."  I  shall  soon  be  writing  to  the  good  monks  at  Assisi;  give  them 
my  love  always. 

"  Do  not  spare  fees  to  custodes,  and  put  them  down  separately  to  me. 

"People  talk  so  absurdly  about  bribing.  An  Italian  cannot  know 
at  first  anything  about  an  Englishman  but  that  he  is  either  stingy  or  gen- 
erous. The  money  gift  really  opens  his  heart,  if  he  has  one.  You  can 
do  it  in  that  case  without  money,  indeed,  eventually,  but  it  is  amazing 
how  many  people  can  have  good  (as  well  as  bad)  brought  out  of  them  by 
gifts,  and  no  otherwise." 

"LONDON,  i^thjune,  1873. 

"  MY  DEAR , — I  am  very  glad  to  have  your  letters,  and  to  see 

that  you  are  on  the  whole  well,  and  happy  in  your  work.  One's  friends 
never  do  write  to  one  when  one's  at  Siena  ;  somehow  it  is  impossible  to 
suppose  a  letter  ever  gets  there. 

"You  may  stay  at  your  work  there  as  long  as  you  find  necessary  for 
easy  completion.  It  will  be  long  before  I  get  to  Assisi. 

"  I  don't  care  about  anything  in  the  Villa  Spanocchi.  All  my  pleas- 
ant thoughts  of  it  —  or  any  other  place  nearly  —  are  gone.  Do  '  The 
Peace '  as  thoroughly  as  possible,  now  you  are  at  it. 

"  I  have  intense  sympathy  with  you  about  Sunday,  but  fancy  my  con- 
science was  unusually  morbid.  I  am  never  comfortable  on  the  day.  Of 
course  the  general  shop-shutting  and  dismalness  in  England  adds  to  the 
effect  of  it. 

"Your  day  is  admirably  laid  out,  except  that  in  your  walk  after 
four  you  go  to  look  at  pictures.  You  ought  to  rest  in  changed  thoughts 
as  much  as  possible,  to  get  out  on  the  green  banks  and  brows,  and  think 
of  nothing  but  what  the  leaves  and  winds  say. 

' '  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you  of  myself  that  is  pleasant ;  not  much  that 


is  specially  otherwise.  The  weather  has  been  frightful  in  London.  It 
was  better  at  Coniston,  but  it  appalls  me  ;  it  is  a  plague  of  darkness  such 
as  I  never  believed  nature  could  inflict  or  suffer. 

"  Always  affectionately  yours,  J.  RUSKIN." 

"  HERNE  HILL,  ^•>,d  April,  1882. 

..."  That  is  a  good  passage  of  Leonardo's,  but  if  you  had  read  my 
Oxford  lectures  you  would  find  their  whole  initiatory  line  and  shade 
practice  is  (with  distinct  announcement  of  his  authority)  based  on  his 
book.  I  had  read  every  word  of  it  with  care  before  I  finished  J\Iod.  P." 


XII 


SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  writes  on  one  occasion :  "  I  spent 
last  night  with  Ruskin,  and  very  delightful  it  was.  He  is 
now  taking  that  larger  view  of  art  which  I  always  expected 
he  would,  and  begins  to  regard  Greek  art  from  the  point  of 
view  in  which  it  ought  to  be  looked  at,  and  was  regarded 
by  the  Greeks  themselves."  This  letter  was  shown  me  by 
the  kindest  of  friends,  whose  own  noble  inspiration  is  a 
blessing  and  a  light  to  the  age.  Watts  has  often  described 
his  discussions  with  Ruskin  during  their  long  and  intimate 
companionship.  That  Ruskin  is  remorseless  all  his  friends 
must  allow,  but  he  is  remorseless  to  himself  as  soon  as  a 
conviction  is  borne  in  upon  him. 

Here  is  a  charming  example  of  a  recantation  in  a  letter 
to  Mr.  Burne-Jones  : 

"VENICE,  \T,thMay,  1869. 

"  MY  DEAREST  NED, — There's  nothing  here  like  Carpaccio!  There's 
a  little  bit  of  humble-pie  for  you  ! 

"  Well,  the  fact  was,  I  had  never  once  looked  at  him,  having  classed 
him  in  glance  and  thought  with  Gentile  Bellini  and  other  men  of  the 


more  or  less  incipient  and  hard  schools,  and  Tintoret  went  better  with 
clouds  and  hills.     But  this  Carpaccio  is  a  new  world  to  me.  .  .  .  I've 

only  seen  the  Academy  ones  yet,  and  am  going  this  morning  ( 

cloudless  light)  to  your  St.  George  of  the  Schiavoni  ;  but  I  must  send 
this  word  first  to  catch  post. 

"  From  your  loving  J.  R. 

"  I  don't  give  up  my  Tintoret,  but  his  dissoluteness  of  expression 
into  drapery  and  shadow  is  too  licentious  for  me  now." 

It  is  to  Watts  I  also  owe  the  following  letters,  which 
are  so  interesting  in  themselves,  and  do  such  honor  to  the 
candor  and  love  of  truth  of  the  recipients,  that  I  will  set 
them  down  without  comment.  The  letters  recall  that  past 
vision  of  Little  Holland  House  and  its  gardens,  where  for 
many  years  Watts,  "  the  Signer,"  as  his  friends  all  call  him, 
dwelt  on,  recording  the  generation  of  noble  people  passing 
by,  as  well  as  the  beautiful  ideals  of  his  own  mind,  working 
day  after  day  quietly  from  dawn  of  light  to  afternoon  in 
that  home  of  so  much  vivid  life  and  original  color,  which 
has  left  the  remembrance  of  kind  deeds  and  happy,  gracious 
ways  shining  like  a  track  on  the  waters. 

"  SATURDAY  EVENING,  zg/A  September,  1860. 

"  DEAR  WATTS, — I  am  very  glad  to  have  your  letter  to-night,  having 
been  downhearted  lately  and  unable  to  write  to  my  friends,  yet  glad  of 
being  remembered  by  them.  I  have  kept  a  kind  letter  of  Mrs.  Prinsep's 
by  me  ever  so  long.  It  came  too  late  to  be  answered  before  the  birth- 
day of  which  it  told  me. 

"  I  will  come  and  sit  whenever  and  wherever  and  as  long  as  you 
like.  I  have  nothing  whatever  to  do,  and  don't  mean  to  have.  I  hope 
to  be  at  National  Gallery  on  Tuesday  [erased],  Wednesday  [erased  ;  see 
end  of  note],  and  Thursday  afternoons,  two  to  four,  not  exactly  working, 
but  wondering.  I  entirely  feel  with  you  that  there  is  no  dodge  in  Titian. 
It  is  simply  right  doing  with  a  care  and  dexterity  alike  unpractised  among 
us  nowadays.  It  is  drawing  with  paint  as  tenderly  as  you  do  with  chalk. 
...  I  suspect  that  Titian  depended  on  states  and  times  in  coloring  more 

"5 


than  we  do — that  he  left  such  and  such  colors  for  such  and  such  times 
always  before  retouching,  and  so  on  ;  but  this  you  would  not  call  dodge 
— would  you  ? — but  merely  perfect  knowledge  of  means.  It  struck  me 
in  looking  at  your  group  with  child  in  the  Academy  that  you  depended 
too  much  on  blending  and  too  little  on  handling  color  ;  that  you  were 
not  simple  enough  nor  quick  enough  to  do  all  you  felt ;  nevertheless  it 
was  very  beautiful.  I  should  think  you  were  tormented  a  little  by  hav- 
ing too  much  feeling. 

"  If  it  is  fine  to-morrow  I  have  promised  to  take  a  drive,  but  the 
second  fine  day,  whatever  that  may  be  this  week,  I  shall  be  at  Trafalgar 
Square." 

"  February  5,  1861. 

"  MY  DEAR  WATTS, — Kind  thanks  for  writing  to  ask  for  me.  I  am 
not  unwell  materially,  but  furiously  sulky  and  very  quiet  over  my  work, 
and  mean  to  be  so,  and  having  been  hitherto  a  rather  voluble  and  dem- 
onstrative person,  people  think  I'm  ill.  I'm  not  cheerful,  certainly,  and 
don't  see  how  anybody  in  their  senses  can  be. 

"  I  did  not  say — did  I  ? — that  you  were  not  to  aim  at  all  qualities  ; 
but  not  all  at  once.  Titian  was  born  of  strong  race,  and  with  every  con- 
ceivable human  advantage,  and  probably  before  he  was  twelve  years  old 
knew  all  that  could  be  done  with  oil-painting.  We  are  under  every 
conceivable  human  disadvantage,  and  we  must  be  content  to  go  slowly. 
If  you  try  at  present  to  get  all  Titian's  qualities,  you  will  assuredly  get 
none.  You  not  only  have  seen  Titians  and  Correggios  which  united  all, 
but  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  saw  a  true  Titian  or  Correggio  which  did 
not  unite  all.  But  that  does  not  in  the  least  warrant  you  in  trying  at 
once  to  do  the  same  —  you  have  many  things  to  discover  which  they 
learned  with  their  alphabet,  many  things  to  cure  yourself  of  which  their 
master  never  allowed  them  to  fall  into  habit  of.  For  instance,  from  long 
drawing  with  chalk  point  you  have  got  a  mottled  and  broken  execution, 
and  have  no  power  of  properly  modulating  the  brush.  Well,  the  way 
to  cure  yourself  of  that  is  not  by  trying  for  Titian  or  Correggio,  whose 
modulations  are  so  exquisite  that  they  perpetually  blend  invisibly  with 
the  point-work,  but  take  a  piece  of  absolute  modulation  —  the  head  of 
the  kneeling  figure  in  Sir  Joshua's  '  Three  Graces '  at  Kensington,  for 
instance — and  do  it  twenty  times  over  and  over  again,  restricting  your- 
self wholly  to  his  number  of  touches  and  thereabouts.  Then  you  will 
feel  exactly  where  you  are,  and  what  is  the  obstacle  in  that  direction  to 

116 


be  vanquished  ;  you  will  feel  progress  every  day,  and  be  happy  in  it  ; 
while  when  you  try  for  everything,  you  never  know  what  is  stopping 
you.  Again,  the  chalk  drawing  has  materially  damaged  your  perception 
of  the  subtlest  qualities  of  local  color.  When  a  form  is  shown  by  a 
light  of  one  color  and  a  reflex  of  another,  both  equal  in  depth,  if  we  are 
drawing  in  chalk  we  must  exaggerate  either  one  or  the  other,  or  the  form 
must  be  invisible.  The  habit  of  exaggeration  is  fatal  to  the  color  vision; 
to  conquer  it  you  should  paint  the  purest  and  subtlest  colored  objects  on 
a  small  scale  tijl  you  can  realize  them  thoroughly.  I  say  on  a  small 
scale ;  otherwise  the  eye  does  not  come  to  feel  the  value  of  points  of 
hue.  This  exercise,  nearly  the  reverse  of  the  modulation  exercise,  could 
not  be  healthily  carried  on  together  with  it.  And  so  on  with  others. 

"  I  write  with  an  apparently  presumptuous  positiveness,  but  my  own 
personal  experience  of  every  sort  of  feebleness  is  so  great  that  I  have  a 
right  to  do  so  on  points  connected  with  it. 

"  Sincere  regard  to  all  friends. 

"  Ever  affectionately  yours,  J.  R." 

"DENMARK  HILL,  S. , 
"  Wednesday,  2$ik  Jitly,  1866. 

"  MY  DEAR  WATTS, — I  heard  to-day  from  Edward*  that  he  thought 
you  would  like  to  come  and  see  me — or  me  to  come  to  you. 

"  You  have  not  been  here  for  ever  so  long.  Can  you  come  out  any 
day  to  breakfast? — and  we'll  have  a  nice  talk — or  would  you  rather  I 
should  come  in  the  afternoon  ?  I  rarely  stir  in  the  morning.  I  want  to 
see  you.  I've  been  very  ill  and  sad  lately,  or  should  have  managed  it. 

"  Send  me  just  a  line  to  say  what  day  you  could  come,  or  see  me. 
"  Ever  affectionately  yours,  J.  RUSKIN. 

"  G.  WATTS,  Esq. 

"  Ned  says  you  have  been  doing  beautiful  things.  And  therefore  I 
should  like  to  come,  as  you  won't  exhibit  and  leave  Maclise's  '  Death  of 
Nelson  '  to  edify  the  public  of  taste,  but  I  think  you  would  enjoy  one 
picture  here." 

And  so,  as  one  thinks  of  it  all,  of  the  people  living  round 
about  us  shaping  their  own  and  other  people's  lives,  one 
admires  and  wonders  at  this  unending  variety  of  power  and 

*  Mr.  E.  Burne- Jones. 
117 


voice  of  apprehension,  of  teaching,  of  opinion.  Few  things 
strike  one  more  among  the  chief  men  who  come  to  the  front 
— not  by  chance,  but  by  force  of  hard  work  and  natural 
right — than  their  good-fellowship,  their  trust  in  one  another, 
and  their  genuine  appreciation  of  each  other,  whatever  their 
opinions  may  be.  It  is  more  commonly  the  second  rate 
among  us  who  are  critical  and  impatient.  And  this  is  in- 
deed the  secret  of  the  rule  of  those  Captains  of  our  race 
who  are  Captains  by  reason  of  their  swifter  knowledge  and 
insight,  their  greater  courage  and  fairness. 

We  have  all  been  reading  lately  of  generous  Darwin  and 
his  friends.  Genuine  excellence  is  distinguished  by  this 
mark,  that  it  belongs  to  all  mankind,  says  Goethe,  writing  to 
Carlyle.  Carlyle  himself,  with  his  flashing  wit  and  his  pas- 
sionate flashing  words,  discriminates  even  while  he  grum- 
bles. Ruskin  has  phases  of  impression,  but  his  noble  in- 
stinct is  for  the  truth,  although  the  examples  he  gives  at 
times  seem  so  changeable,  and  his  systems  of  instruction 
almost  hopeless  for  students  who  have  to  live  during  their 
short  lives ;  to  pay  their  way  and  their  long  bills  as  well  as 
to  study  their  art.  Ruskin's  own  peculiar  system  is  in  real- 
ity almost  more  of  a  trial  of  patience  than  of  skill ;  he  has  a 
series  of  pitfalls  for  unwary  students,  among  which  the  white 
jam  pots  he  used  to  prescribe  to  those  of  Oxford  may  be 
counted.  But  though  his  practice  may  be  fanciful,  his  light 
is  a  beacon  indeed,  steadily  flashing  from  the  rock  upon 
which  it  is  set.  The  rays  fall  upon  uncertain  waves,  change 
their  color,  turn  and  return,  dazzle  or  escape  you  altogether ; 
but  the  longer  you  look  at  them,  the  more  you  realize  their 
truth  and  their  beauty.  You  can't  take  up  a  book  with  any 
one  of  the  fanciful  charming  names,  whether  the  Queen  of 
the  Air,  or  Sesame  and  Lilies,  or  the  Crown  of  Wild  Olive, 
that  you  don't  find  conscience  and  good  common -sense 
wrapped  up  and  hidden  among  the  flowers.  The  shrewd- 


ness,  the  wisdom  of  it  all  strikes  us  as  much  as  the  variety 
of  his  interests. 

"A  few  words,"  he  says  somewhere,  "well  chosen  and 
well  distinguished,  will  do  work  that  a  thousand  cannot, 
when  every  one  is  acting  equivocally  in  the  function  of  an- 
other. Yes ;  and  words,  if  they  are  not  watched,  will  do 
deadly  work  sometimes,  masked  words — unjust  stewards  of 
men's  ideas." 

How  true  is  this  sentence  concerning  the  idle  and  the 
busy :  "  All  rich  people  are  not  idle.  There  are  the  idle 
rich  and  the  idle  poor,  as  there  are  the  busy  rich  and  the 
busy  poor.  Many  a  beggar  is  as  lazy  as  if  he  had  ten 
thousand  a  year ;  many  a  man  of  fortune  is  busier  than  his 
errand-boy." 

Here  is  his  definition  of  a  true  Church  :  "  Wherever  one 
hand  meets  another  helpfully — that  is  the  Holy  or  Mother 
Church  which  ever  is  or  ever  shall  be." 

About  books  :  "  Will  you  go  and  gossip  with  your  house- 
maid or  your  stable-boy  when  you  may  talk  with  queens 
and  kings  ?  But  we  cannot  read  unless  our  minds  are  fit. 
Avarice,  injustice,  vulgarity,  base  excitement,  all  unfit  us. 
Beware  of  reading  in  order  to  say,  '  Thus  Milton  thought,' 
rather  than,  'Thus  I  thought  in  misreading  Milton.'  " 

Here  is  another  hint  respecting  books  for  women : 
"  Whether  novels  or  history  or  poetry  be  read,  they  should 
be  chosen  not  for  what  is  out  of  them,  but  for  what  is  in 
them.  The  chance  and  scattered  evil  that  may  here  and 
there  haunt  and  hide  itself  in  a  powerful  book  never  does 
any  harm  to  a  noble  girl,  but  the  emptiness  of  an  author 
oppresses  her  and  his  amiable  folly  degrades  her."  On 
education,  as  on  the  relations  between  men  and  women,  he 
has  a  thousand  delightful  things  to  say.  "  Keep  a  fairy  or 
two  for  your  children,"  says  kind  Ruskin  ;  and  doubtless 
acting  upon  this  friendly  hint,  the  School  Board  has 


adopted  that  charming  history  of  the  King  of  the  Golden 
River  as  a  standard  prize  book. 

It  is  pretty  to  read  of  the  way  in  which  Ruskin  adjusts 
the  different  offices  of  the  husband  and  the  wife.  The 
woman's  a  guiding,  not  a  determining  function.  The  man 
is  the  doer,  the  creator ;  the  woman's  power  is  for  rule  and 
not  for  battle.  Her  great  function  is  praise;  she  enters  into 
no  contest,  but  adjudges  the  crown. 


XIII 


I  AM  told  by  Mr.  Allen  that  Mr.  Ruskin  thinks  that  the 
book  which  will  stand  the  longest  is  the  Crown  of  Wild 
Olive.  Sesame  and  Lilies  is,  and  most  deservedly  so,  a  favor- 
ite book  with  the  public.  Who  can  ever  forget  the  closing 
passages,  in  which  the  poet,  looking  round  about,  seeing 
the  need  of  the  children  even  greater  than  that  of  their 
elders,  bids  women  go  forth  into  the  garden  and  tend  the 
flowerets  lying  broken,  with  their  fresh  leaves  torn ;  set 
them  in  order  in  their  little  beds,  fence  them  from  the  fierce 
wind  —  "flowers  with  eyes  like  yours,  with  thoughts  like 
yours."  Was  ever  a  lesson  more  tenderly  given  ? 

How  true  is  this  description  of  Holman  Hunt :  "  To  Ros- 
setti  the  Old  and  New  Testaments  were  only  the  greatest 
poems  he  knew.  But  to  Holman  Hunt  the  story  of  the 
New  Testament,  when  once  his  mind  entirely  fastened  on 
it,  became  what  it  was  to  an  old  Puritan, .  .  .  not  merely  a 
Reality,  not  merely  the  greatest  of  Realities,  but  the  only 
Reality." 

I  have  perhaps  quoted  too  much  already,  but  I  cannot 
help  giving  a  passage  from  the  Stones  of  Venice,  which  is 


written  in  a  different  key,  a  very  grave  and  noble  one.  He 
says :  "  The  passions  of  mankind  are  partly  protective, 
partly  beneficent,  like  the  chaff  and  grain  of  the  corn,  but 
none  without  their  use,  none  without  nobleness  when  seen 
in  balanced  unity  with  the  rest  of  the  spirit  they  are  charged 
to  defend.  The  passions  of  which  the  end  is  the  contin- 
uance of  the  race,  the  indignation  which  is  to  arm  it  against 
injustice  or  strengthen  it  to  resist  wanton  injury,  and  the 
fear  which  lies  at  the  root  of  prudence,  reverence,  and  awe, 
are  all  honorable  and  beautiful  so  long  as  man  is  regarded 
in  his  relations  to  the  existing  world." 

Another  lesson  which  Ruskin  would  impress  upon  us  all 
is  one  more  easy  to  grasp,  and  it  applies  to  the  whole  con- 
duct of  life,  whether  in  art,  or  in  nature  and  natural  phe- 
nomena. "The  seed  the  sower  sows  grows  up  according 
to  its  kind :  let  us  sow  good  seed  with  care  and  liberality." 
When  Ruskin  tells  us  that  modesty,  piety,  humility,  and  a 
number  of  somewhat  unexpected  attributes  are  to  be  found 
in  the  curl  of  a  leaf,  in  the  painted  background  of  a  picture, 
or  in  the  arch  of  a  window,  a  moment's  thought  will  show 
how  true  his  words  are.  Qualities  take  different  forms  in 
their  exercise:  Modesty  in  design  would  mean  care  and 
accuracy;  Humility  would  mean  interest  in  the  object 
copied,  not  a  vulgar  desire  for  self-glorification  and  for 
rapid  effect ;  Piety  represents  that  sweet  sense  which  some 
call  sentiment. 

Then  again  listen  to  Ruskin  writing  upon  a  different 
theme,  that  of  Shakespeare's  chivalry.  "  Note  broadly  in 
the  outset  that  Shakespeare  has  no  heroes,  whereas  there  is 
hardly  a  play  that  has  not  a  perfect  woman  in  it,  steadfast 
in  grave  .  hope  and  errorless  purpose.  Cordelia,  Desde- 
mona,  Isabella,  Hermione,  Imogen,  Queen  Katherine,  Per- 
dita,  Sylvia,  Viola,  Rosalind,  Helena,  and  last  and  perhaps 
loveliest,  Virgilia,  are  all  faultless,  conceived  in  the  highest 


heroic  type  of  humanity.  Then  observe,  secondly,  the  ca- 
tastrophe of  every  play  is  caused  always  by  the  folly  or 
fault  of  a  man ;  the  redemption,  if  there  be  any,  is  by  the 
wisdom  or  virtue  of  a  woman." 

One  of  Shakespeare's  heroines  (a  Helen  happily  belong- 
ing to  our  own  time)  has  dedicated  to  Ruskin  one  of  her 
charming  renderings  of  her  not  forgotten  parts.  "  She  " 
(Lady  Martin)  "has  shown  her  beautiful  sympathy  with 
character  in  choosing  Beatrice,"  Ruskin  writes  in  return  to 
Sir  Theodore  Martin,  "  and  she  may  be  assured  that  I  am 
indeed  listening  with  all  my  heart  to  every  word  she  will 
say."  And  then  again  to  Lady  Martin  herself:  "I  thought 
I  knew  Beatrice  of  any  lady  by  heart,  but  you  have  made 
her  still  more  real  and  dear  to  me,  especially  by  the  little 
sentences  in  which  you  speak  of  your  own  feelings  in  cer- 
tain moments  in  acting  her.  You  have  made  me  wretched 
because  Beatrice  is  not  at  Brantwood."  ..."  I  should  like 
a  pomegranate  or  two  in  Juliet's  balcony,"  he  adds.  I  take 
up  another  letter  to  Sir  Theodore  Martin  at  hazard,  and 
read :  "  You  are  happy  at  Llangollen  in  this  season.  The 
ferns  and  grass  of  its  hills  are  far  more  beautifully  and  soft- 
ly opposed  than  on  ours."  How  few  of  us  know  how  to 
think  with  such  vividness !  —  we  think  of  a  valley,  of  a 
mountain,  of  the  skies  beyond  it,  but  we  don't  instinctively 
see  the  details ;  we  don't  contrast  the  hue  of  the  ferns  and 
of  the  turf  of  Cumberland  and  of  Wales,  perceiving  it  all 
with  that  instantaneous  conception  which  is  genius,  in 
short. 

I  once  heard  a  well-known  man  of  science  speaking  of 
Ruskin  ;  some  one  had  asked  him  whether  Ruskin  or  Goethe 
had  done  most  for  science.  Sir  John  Lubbock  replied  that 
Ruskin  undoubtedly  had  done  very  much  more  valuable 
work  than  Goethe ;  and  that  without  any  pretensions  to 
profound  scientific  knowledge,  he  had  an  extraordinary 


natural  gift  for  observation,  and  seemed  to  know  by  instinct 
what  to  observe,  what  was  important  amid  so  much  that 
was  fanciful  and  poetical ;  and  then  he  went  on  to  quote 
the  description  of  the  swallow  from  Love's  Meinie,  one  of  the 
loveliest  things  imaginable,  and  which  it  would  not  be  diffi- 
cult to  apply  to  Ruskin's  own  genius— so  swift,  so  unerring 
in  its  flight,  so  incalculable,  so  harmonious  and  fascinating 
always. 

Mr.  Ruskin  is  a  figure  standing  out  distinguished  among 
the  many  figures  and  characters  which  make  up  the  dramatis 
persona  of  our  time  ;  and  this  being  so,  legends  gather  round 
him  as  clouds  gather  round  the  peak  of  his  own  Coniston 
Old  Man.  One  story  I  have  vaguely  heard  which  describes 
a  Haroun-al-Raschid  expedition  of  his  through  the  streets 
of  London,  a  flight  from  the  mosque  to  the  jeweller's  store, 
where  the  loveliest  gems  are  heaped  before  him,  of  which  he 
can  best  tell  the  secrets.  Then  from  the  jeweller's  store  to 
the  pastry-cook's,  where  in  an  inner  room  a  table  is  spread, 
not  with  the  cream  tarts  of  fiction,  but  with  the  British  fare 
of  roast  mutton  and  potatoes,  and  where,  as  the  poet  lunches, 
salting  his  food  meanwhile  with  his  enchanting  talk,  little 
by  little  all  the  people  already  in  the  shop  leaving  their  buns 
and  sandwiches,  gather  round  to  listen.  Another  legend, 
which  I  cannot  vouch  for  either,  but  which  seems  suitable 
somehow,  begins  with  a  dream,  in  which  Ruskin  dreamt 
himself  a  Franciscan  friar.  Now  I  am  told  that  when  he 
was  at  Rome  there  was  a  beggar  on  the  steps  of  the  Pincio 
who  begged  of  Mr.  Ruskin  every  day  as  he  passed,  and  who 
always  received  something.  On  one  occasion  the  grateful 
beggar  suddenly  caught  the  out-stretched  hand  and  kissed 
it.  Mr.  Ruskin  stopped  short,  drew  his  hand  hastily  away, 
and  then,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  bending  forward,  kissed 
the  beggar's  cheek.  The  next  day  the  man  came  to  Mr. 
Ruskin's  lodging  to  find  him,  bringing  a  gift,  which  he  offered 


with  tears  in  his  eyes.  It  was  a  relic,  he  said,  a  shred  of 
brown  cloth  which  had  once  formed  part  of  the  robe  of  St. 
Francis.  Mr.  Ruskin  remembered  his  dream  when  the  poor 
beggar  brought  forth  his  relic,  and  thence,  so  I  am  told, 
came  his  pilgrimage  to  the  convent  of  St.  Francis  Assisi, 
where  he  beheld  those  frescos  by  Giotto  which  seemed  to 
him  more  lovely  than  anything  Tintoret  himself  had  ever 
produced.  I  personally  should  like  to  believe  that  the 
mendicant  was  St.  Francis  appearing  in  the  garb  of  a  beggar 
to  his  great  disciple,  to  whom  also  had  been  granted  the  gift 
of  interpreting  the  voice  of  Nature. 

We  are  all  apt  to  feel  at  times  that  meat  is  more  than  life, 
and  the  raiment  more  than  the  soul ;  at  such  times  let  us 
turn  to  Ruskin.  He  sees  the  glorious  world  as  we  have 
never  known  it,  or  have  perhaps  forgotten  to  look  upon  it. 
He  takes  the  first  example  to  hand ;  the  stones,  which  he 
makes  into  bread ;  the  dust  and  scraps  and  dry  sticks  and 
moss  which  are  lying  to  his  hand ;  he  is  so  penetrated  \vith 
the  glory  and  beauty  of  it  all,  of  the  harmony  into  which  we 
are  set,  that  it  signifies  little  to  him  upon  what  subject  he 
preaches,  and  by  what  examples  he  illustrates  his  meaning ; 
there  is  a  blessing  upon  his  words,  and  surely  the  fragments 
which  remain  are  worthy  of  the  twelve  baskets  of  the 
Apostles. 

It  seemed  to  me  one  day  last  summer  as  if  in  truth  Rus- 
kin's  actual  page  was  shining  before  me  as  I  waited  on  the 
slope  of  Blackdown  Moor  in  Surrey.  It  was  the  day  of  the 
Naval  Review,  and  as  I  rested  in  a  blackberry-bordered  field 
I  could  see  the  tossing  land-waves  alive  with  summer  and 
summer  toil,  the  laborers  patiently  pacing  and  repacing  the 
furrows,  the  hay-carts  unloading ;  other  hedges  again  divid- 
ing harvest  from  harvest,  labor  from  labor;  and  in  the  far 
distance  a  dazzling  plain,  with  gleams  of  white  like  the 


breakers  of  the  sea,  and  overhead  a  midsummer  vault  of 
blue,  across  which  a  hawk  was  darting  in  glorious  serenity. 
One  of  Ruskin's  books  was  lying  open  on  the  grass,  and 
the  very  page  seemed  to  slide  forth  to  fill  the  air ;  now  and 
then  a  faint  breeze  would  shake  the  leaves  and  the  count- 
less points  and  blossoms  upon  the  trees  and  hedges  still  in 
my  Ruskin  land  round  about ;  while  from  time  to  time  could 
be  heard  the  distant  echo  of  the  Portsmouth  guns  saluting 
the  Queen  as  she  passed  among  her  ships. 

NOTE. — This  note  is  from  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  of  March  28,  1887, 
and  was  compiled  from  information  given  by  Mr.  Allen,  to  show  what 
the  comparative  sale  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  books  had  been  for  1886  : 

Sesame  and  Lilies  (small  edition),  2122  ;  Frondes  Agrestes,  1273  ;  Stones  of  Venice 
/large  edition),  939;  Unto  this  Last,  874;  Ethics  of  the  Dust,  808;  Fors  Clavigera 
(volumes  of),  730;  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,  668;  Modern  Painters,  Vol.  II.  (small 
edition),  652  ;  Stones  of  Venice  (small  travellers'  edition,  in  two  vois.),  each,  675 ;  On 
the  Old  Road,  597;  King  of  the  Golden  River,  388. 

Of  the  books  issuing  in  parts,  the  following  figures  will  be  interesting  : 

Praterita  (20  parts  issued),  63,386;  The  Art  of  England  (7  parts  issued),  1929; 
Road-side  Songs  of  Tuscany  (10  parts  issued),  1459;  Proserpina,  921. 

The  King  of  the  Golden  River,  it  may  be  interesting  to  add,  is  largely 
bought  by  the  London  School  Board  for  prizes.  Mr.  Ruskin's  Letter 
to  Young  Girls  has  also  a  large  sale,  264  packets  (containing  3168  copies 
in  all)  having  been  sold  during  last  year. 

With  regard  to  the  "Revised  Series"  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  works,  the 
following  were  the  sales  during  1886  : 

Sesame  and  Lilies,  272  ;  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  188;  Queen  of  the  Air,  108;  Eagle's 
Nest,  104 ;  Two  Paths,  96 ;  Time  and  Tide,  89  ;  Munera  Pulveris,  73  ;  *  Val  d' Arno,  54 ; 
*Aratra  Pentelice,  53 ;  A  Joy  Forever,  51 ;  *Ariadne  Florentina,  40. 

This  series,  it  should  be  stated,  is  a  very  expensive  one,  the  ordinary 
volumes  costing  13.?.  each  (unbound),  the  illustrated  (marked  above  with 
an  asterisk),  2zs.  6d.  The  unillustrated  volumes  are,  however,  all  in 
course  of  being  issued  in  cheap  form,  similar  to  the  small  Sesame  and 
Lilies,  of  which  over  2000  copies  were  sold  last  year.  Prceterita  is 
steadily  increasing  in  popularity.  Last  year  3169  copies  of  each  part 
were  sold  on  an  average.  Mr.  Allen  is  now  printing  for  first  edition 
5000  copies  of  each. 


ROBERT  AND   ELIZABETH   BARRETT 
BROWNING 


"  /  do  not  know,  and  much  wiser  people  than  I  do  not  know, 
what  writings  are  inspired  and  which  are  not,  hut  I  do  know  of 
those  I  have  read  which  are  classical  belonging  to  the  Eternal 
Senate." 

Preface  to  the  "  Bibliotheca  Pastorum,"  RUSKIN. 


THE  sons  and  daughters  of  men  and  women  eminent  in 
their  generation  are  from  circumstances  fortunate  in 
their  opportunities.  From  childhood  they  know  their  par- 
ents' friends  and  contemporaries,  the  remarkable  men  and 
women  who  are  the  makers  of  the  age,  quite  naturally  and 
without  excitement.  At  the  same  time  this  facility  may 
perhaps  detract  in  some  degree  from  the  undeniable  gla- 
mour of  the  Unknown,  and,  indeed,  it  is  not  till  much  later 
in  life  that  the  time  comes  to  appreciate. 

B  or  C  or  D  are  great  men ;  we  know  it  because  our  fa- 
thers have  told  us ;  but  the  moment  when  we  feel  it  for 
ourselves  comes  suddenly  and  mysteriously.  My  own  expe- 
rience certainly  is  this :  the  friends  existed  first ;  then,  long 
afterwards,  they  became  to  me  the  notabilities,  the  interest- 
ing people  as  well,  and  these  two  impressions  were  oddly 
combined  in  my  mind.  When  we  were  children  living  in 
Paris,  we  used  to  look  with  a  certain  mingled  terror  and  fas- 
cination at  various  pages  of  grim  heads  drawn  in  black  and 
red  chalk,  something  in  the  manner  of  Fuseli.  Masks  and 
faces  were  depicted,  crowding  together  with  malevolent  or 
agonized  or  terrific  expressions.  There  were  the  suggestions 
of  a  hundred  weird  stories  on  the  pages  at  which  one  gazed 
with  creeping  alarm.  These  pictures  were  all  drawn  by  a 
kind  and  most  gentle  neighbor  of  ours,  whom  we  all  often 
met  and  visited,  and  of  whom  we  were  not  in  the  very  least 
afraid.  His  name  was  Mr.  Robert  Browning.  He  was  the 
father  of  the  poet,  and  he  lived  with  his  daughter  in  calm 


and  pleasant  retreat  in  those  Champs-Elysees  to  which  so 
many  people  used  to  come  at  that  time  seekirig  well-earned 
repose  from  their  labors  by  crossing  the  Channel  instead  of 
the  Styx.  I  don't  know  whether  Mr.  and  Miss  Browning 
always  lived  in  Paris ;  they  are  certainly  among  the  people 
I  can  longest  recall  there.  But  one  day  I  found  myself 
listening  with  some  interest  to  a  conversation  which  had 
been  going  on  for  some  time  between  my  grandparents  and 
Miss  Browning — a  long  matter-of-fact  talk  about  houses, 
travellers,  furnished  apartments,  sunshine,  south  aspects, 
etc.,  and  on  asking  who  were  the  "travellers  coming  to 
inhabit  the  apartments,  I  was  told  that  our  Mr.  Browning 
had  a  son  who  lived  abroad,  and  who  was  expected  shortly 
with  his  wife  from  Italy,  and  that  the  rooms  were  to  be  en- 
gaged for  them ;  and  I  was  also  told  that  they  were  very 
gifted  and  celebrated  people  ;  and  I  further  remember  that 
very  afternoon  being  taken  over  various  vacant  houses  and 
lodgings  by  my  grandmother.  Mrs.  Browning  was  an  in- 
valid, my  grandmother  told  me,  who  could  not  possibly  live 
without  light  and  warmth.  So  that  by  the  time  the  travel- 
lers had  really  arrived,  and  were  definitively  installed,  we 
were  all  greatly  excited  and  interested  in  their  whereabouts, 
and  well  convinced  that  wherever  else  the  sun  might  or 
might  not  fall,  it  must  shine  upon  them.  In  this  homely 
fashion  the  shell  of  the  future — the  four  walls  of  a  friend- 
ship— began  to  exist  before  the  friends  themselves  walked 
into  it.  We  were  taken  to  call  very  soon  after  they  arrived. 
Mr.  Browning  was  not  there,  but  Mrs.  Browning  received  us 
in  a  low  room  with  Napoleonic  chairs  and  tables,  and  a 
wood-fire  burning  on  the  hearth. 

I  don't  think  any  girl  who  had  once  experienced  it  could 
fail  to  respond  to  Mrs.  Browning's  motherly  advance.  There 
was  something  more  than  kindness  in  it ;  there  was  an  im- 
plied interest,  equality,  and  understanding  which  is  very 


difficult  to  describe  and  impossible  to  forget.  This  gener- 
ous humility  of  nature  was  also  to  the  last  one  special  at- 
tribute of  Robert  Browning  himself,  translated  by  him  into 
cheerful  and  vigorous  good-will  and  utter  absence  of  affec- 
tation. But  again  and  again  one  is  struck  by  that  form 
of  greatness  which  consists  in  reaching  the  reality  in  all 
things,  instead  of  keeping  to  the  formalities  and  the  af- 
fectations of  life.  The  free-and-easiness  of  the  small  is  a 
very  different  thing  from  this.  It  may  be  as  false  in  its  way 
as  formality  itself,  if  it  is  founded  on  conditions  which  do 
not  and  can  never  exist. 

To  the  writer's  own  particular  taste  there  never  will  be 
any  more  delightful  person  than  the  simple-minded  woman 
of  the  world,  who  has  seen  enough  to  know  what  its  praise  is 
all  worth,  who  is  sure  enough  of  her  own  position  to  take  it 
for  granted,  who  is  interested  in  the  person  she  is  talking 
to,  and  unconscious  of  anything  but  a  wish  to  give  kindness 
and  attention.  This  is  the  impression  Mrs.  Browning  made 
upon  me  from  the  first  moment  I  ever  saw  her  to  the  last. 
Alas !  the  moments  were  not  so  very  many  when  we  were 
together.  Perhaps  all  the  more  vivid  is  the  recollection  of 
the  peaceful  home,  of  the  fireside  where  the  logs  are  burn- 
ing while  the  lady  of  that  kind  hearth  is  established  in  her 
sofa  corner,  with  her  little  boy  curled  up  by  her  side,  the 
door  opening  and  shutting  meanwhile  to  the  quick  step  of 
the  master  of  the  house,  to  the  life  of  the  world  without  as 
it  came  to  find  her  in  her  quiet  nook.  The  hours  seemed 
to  my  sister  and  to  me  warmer,  more  full  of  interest  and 
peace,  in  her  sitting-room  than  elsewhere.  Whether  at 
Florence,  at  Rome,  at  Paris,  or  in  London  once  more,  she 
seemed  to  carry  her  own  atmosphere  always,  something  seri- 
ous, motherly,  absolutely  artless,  and  yet  impassioned,  noble, 
and  sincere.  I  can  recall  the  slight  figure  in  its  thin  black 
dress,  the  writing  apparatus  by  the  sofa,  the  tiny  inkstand, 


the  quill-nibbed  pen — the  unpretentious  implements  of  her 
magic.  "She  was  a  little  woman;  she  liked  little  things," 
Mr.  Browning  used  to  say.  Her  miniature  editions  of  the 
classics  are  still  carefully  preserved,  with  her  name  written 
in  each  in  her  delicate,  sensitive  handwriting,  and  always 
with  her  husband's  name  above  her  own,  for  she  dedicated 
all  her  books  to  him ;  it  was  a  fancy  that  she  had.  Nor 
must  his  presence  in  the  home  be  forgotten  any  more  than 
in  the  books — the  spirited  domination  and  inspired  common- 
sense,  which  seemed  to  give  a  certain  life  to  her  vaguer  vi- 
sions. But  of  these  visions  Mrs.  Browning  rarely  spoke;  she 
was  too  simple  and  practical  to  indulge  in  many  apostrophes. 


II 


To  all  of  us  who  have  only  known  Mrs.  Browning  in  her 
own  home  as  a  wife  and  a  mother,  it  seems  almost  impossi- 
ble to  realize  the  time  before  her  home  existed — when  Mrs. 
Browning  was  not,  and  Elizabeth  Barrett,  dwelling  apart, 
was  weaving  her  spells  like  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  and  sub- 
ject, like  the  lady  herself,  to  the  visions  in  her  mirror. 

Mrs.  Browning*  was  born  in  the  County  of  Durham,  on 
the  6th  of  March,  1809.  It  was  a  golden  year  for  poets, 
for  it  was  also  that  of  Tennyson's  birth.  She  was  the  eldest 
daughter  of  Edward  Moulton,  and  was  christened  by  the 
names  of  Elizabeth  Barrett.  Not  long  after  her  birth  Mr. 
Moulton,  succeeded  to  some  property,  and  took  the  name 
of  Barrett,  so  that  in  after-times,  when  Mrs.  Browning  signed 

*  The  passages  relating  to  Mrs.  Browning's  life  are  taken  (by  the  permission  of 
the  proprietor  and  editor)  from  an  article  contributed  by  the  present  writer  to  the 
"  Biographical  Dictionary  "  published  by  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  &  Co. 

'32 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 


herself  at  length  as  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  it  was  her 
own  Christian  name  that  she  used  without  any  further  lit- 
erary assumptions.  Her  mother  was  Mary  Graham,  the 
daughter  of  a  Mr.  Graham,  afterwards  known  as  Mr.  Graham 
Clark,  of  Northumberland.  Soon  after  the  child's  birth  her 
parents  brought  her  southward,  to  Hope  End,  near  Ledbury, 
in  Herefordshire,  where  Mr.  Barrett  possessed  a  considera- 
ble estate,  and  had  built  himself  a  country-house.  The  house 
is  now  pulled  down,  but  it  is  described  by  Lady  Carmichael, 
one  of  the  family,  as  "a  luxurious  home  standing  in  a  lovely 
park,  among  trees  and  sloping  hills  all  sprinkled  with  sheep ;" 
and  this  same  lady  remembers  the  great  hall,  with  the  great 
organ  in  it,  and  more  especially  Elizabeth's  room,  a  lofty 
chamber,  with  a  stained-glass  window  casting  lights  across 
the  floor,  arid  little  Elizabeth  as  she  used  to  sit  propped 
against  the  wall,  with  her  hair  falling  all  about  her  face. 
There  were  gardens  round  about  the  house  leading  to  the 
park.  Most  of  the  children  had  their  own  plots  to  culti- 
vate, and  Elizabeth  was  famed  among  them  all  for  success 
with  her  white  roses.  She  had  a  bower  of  her  own  all  over- 
grown with  them ;  it  is  still  blooming  for  the  readers  of  the 
lost  bower  "as  once  beneath  the  sunshine."  Another  fa- 
vorite device  with  the  child  was  that  of  a  man  of  flowers, 
laid  out  in  beds  upon  the  lawn — a  huge  giant  wrought  of 
blossom.  "  Eyes  of  gentianella  azure,  staring,  winking  at 
the  skies." 

Mr.  Barrett  was  a  rich  man,  and  his  daughter's  life  was 
that  of  a  rich  man's  child,  far  removed  from  the  stress  and 
also  from  the  variety  and  experience  of  humbler  life ;  but 
her  eager  spirit  found  adventure  for  itself.  Her  gift  for 
learning  was  extraordinary.  At  eight  years  old  little  Eliza- 
beth had  a  tutor  and  could  read  Homer  in  the  original, 
holding  her  book  in  one  hand  and  nursing  her  doll  on  the 
other  arm.  She  has  said  herself  that  in  those  days  "the 


Greeks  were  her  demi  -  gods ;  she  dreamed  more  of  Aga- 
memnon than  of  Moses,  her  black  pony."  At  the  same 
small  age  she  began  to  try  her  childish  powers.  When  she 
was  about  eleven  or  twelve,  her  great  epic  of  the  battle  of 
Marathon  was  written  in  four  books,  and  her  proud  father 
had  it  printed.  "Papa  was  bent  upon  spoiling  me,"  she 
writes.  Her  cousin  remembers  a  certain  ode  the  little  girl 
recited  to  her  father  on  his  birthday ;  as  he  listened,  shading 
his  eyes,  the  young  cousin  was  wondering  why  the  tears 
came  falling  along  his  cheek.  It  seems  right  to  add  on  this 
same  authority  that  their  common  grandmother,  who  used 
to  stay  at  the  house,  did  not  approve  of  these  readings  and 
writings,  and  said  she  had  far  rather  see  Elizabeth's  hem- 
ming more  carefully  finished  off  than  hear  of  all  this  Greek. 
Elizabeth  was  growing  up  meanwhile  under  happy  influ- 
ences ;  she  had  brothers  and  sisters  in  her  home ;  her  life 
was  not  all  study ;  she  had  the  best  of  company — that  of 
happy  children  as  well  as  of  all  natural  things ;  she  loved 
her  hills,  her  gardens,  her  woodland  play-ground.  As  she 
grew  older  she  used  to  drive  a  pony  and  go  farther  afield. 
There  is  a  story  still  told  of  a  little  child,  flying  in  terror  along 
one  of  the  steep  Herefordshire  lanes,  perhaps  frightened  by 
a  cow's  horn  beyond  the  hedge,  who  was  overtaken  by  a 
young  girl,  with  a  pale,  spiritual  face  and  a  profusion  of 
dark  curls,  driving  a  pony-carriage,  and  suddenly  caught  up 
into  safety  and  driven  rapidly  away.  But,  alas  !  it  was  very 
early  in  her  life  that  Elizabeth's  happy  drives  and  rides  were 
discontinued,  and  the  sad  apprenticeship  to  suffering  began. 
Was  it  Moses,  the  black  pony,  who  was  so  nearly  the  cause 
of  her  death  ?  One  day,  when  she  was  about  fifteen,  the 
young  girl,  impatient  to  get  out,  tried  to  saddle  her  pony  in 
a  field  alone,  and  fell,  with  the  saddle  upon  her,  in  some  way 
injuring  her  spine  so  seriously  that  she  lay  for  years  upon 
her  back. 

136 


She  was  about  twenty  when  her  mother's  last  illness  be- 
gan, and  at  the  same  time  some  money  catastrophe,  the  re- 
sult of  other  people's  misdeeds,  overtook  Mr.  Barrett.  He 
would  not  allow  his  wife  to  be  troubled  or  to  be  told  of  this 
crisis  in  his  affairs,  and  he  compounded  with  his  creditors 
at  an  enormous  cost,  materially  diminishing  his  income  for 
life,  so  as  to  put  off  any  change  in  the  ways  at  Hope  End 
until  change  could  trouble  the  sick  lady  no  more.  After 
her  death,  when  Elizabeth  was  a  little  over  twenty,  they 
came  away,  leaving  Hope  End  among  the  hills  forever. 
"Beautiful,  beautiful  hills!"  Miss  Barrett  wrote  long  after 
from  her  closed  sick-room  in  London,  "  and  yet  not  for  the 
whole  world's  beauty  would  I  stand  among  the  sunshine 
and  shadow  of  them  any  more.  It  would  be  a  mockery, 
like  the  taking  back  a  broken  flower  to  its  stalk." 

The  family  spent  two  years  at  Sidmouth,  and  afterwards 
came  to  London,  where  Mr.  Barrett  first  bought  a  house  in 
Gloucester  Place,  and  then  removed  to  Wimpole  Street.  His 
daughter's  continued  delicacy  and  failure  of  health  kept  her 
for  months  at  a  time  a  prisoner  to  her  room,  but  did  not 
prevent  her  from  living  her  own  life  of  eager  and  beautiful 
aspiration.  She  was  becoming  known  to  the  world.  Her 
Prometheus,  which  was  published  when  she  was  twenty-six 
years  old,  was  reviewed  in  the  Quarterly  Review  for  1840, 
and  there  Miss  Barrett's  name  comes  second  among  a  list 
of  the  most  accomplished  women  of  those  days,  whose  little 
tinkling  guitars  are  scarcely  audible  now,  while  this  one  voice 
vibrates  only  more  clearly  as  the  echoes  of  her  time  die  away. 

Her  noble  poem  on  "  Cowper's  Grave  "  was  republished 
with  the  "Seraphim,"*  by  which  (whatever  her  later  opinion 
may  have  been)  she  seems  to  have  set  small  count  at  the 

*  In  a  surviving  copy  of  this  book,  belonging  to  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell,  there  is  an 
added  stanza  to  the  "  Image  of  God  "  never  yet  printed,  and  also  many  corrections  in 
her  delicate  handwriting. 


time,  "  all  the  remaining  copies  of  the  book  being  locked 
away  in  the  wardrobe  in  her  father's  bedroom,"  "  entombed 
as  safely  as  CEdipus  among  the  Olives." 

From  Wimpole  Street  Miss  Barrett  went,  an  unwilling 
exile  for  her  health's  sake,  to  Torquay,  where  the  tragedy 
occurred  which,  as  she  writes  to  Mr.  Home,  "gave  a  night- 
mare to  her  life  forever."  Her  companion  -  brother  had 
come  to  see  her  and  to  be  with  her  and  to  be  comforted  by 
her  for  some  trouble  of  his  own,  when  he  was  accidentally 
drowned,  under  circumstances  of  suspense  which  added  to 
the  shock.  All  that  year  the  sea  beating  upon  the  shore 
sounded  to  her  as  a  dirge,  she  says  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Mit- 
ford.  It  was  long  before  Miss  Barrett's  health  was  suffi- 
ciently restored  to  allow  of  her  being  brought  home  to 
Wimpole  Street,  where  many  years  passed  away  in  confine- 
ment to  a  sick-room,  to  which  few  besides  members  of  her 
own  family  were  admitted.  Among  these  exceptions  was 
her  devoted  Miss  Mitford,  who  would  "  travel  forty  miles 
to  see  her  for  an  hour."  Besides  Miss  Mitford,  Mrs.  Jame- 
son also  came,  and,  above  all,  Mr.  Kenyon,  the  friend  and 
dearest  cousin,  to  whom  Mrs.  Browning  afterwards  dedi- 
cated Aurora  Leigh.  Mr.  Kenyon  had  an  almost  fatherly 
affection  for  her,  and  from  the  first  recognized  his  young 
relative's  genius.  He  was  a  constant  visitor  and  her  link 
with  the  outside  world,  and  he  never  failed  to  urge  her  to 
write,  and  to  live  out  and  beyond  the  walls  of  her  chamber. 

Miss  Barrett  lay  on  her  couch  with  her  dog  Flush  at  her 
feet,  and  Miss  Mitford  describes  her  reading  every  book, 
in  almost  every  language,  and  giving  herself  heart  and.  soul 
to  poetry.  She  also  occupied  herself  with  prose,  writing  lit- 
erary articles  for  the  Athenceum,  and  contributing  to  a  mod- 
ern rendering  of  Chaucer,  which  was  then  being  edited  by 
her  unknown  friend,  Mr.  R.  H.  Home,  from  whose  corre- 
spondence with  her  I  have  already  quoted,  and  whose  inter- 

138 


est  in  literature  and  occupation  with  literary  things  must  have 
brought  wholesome  distractions  to  the  monotonies  of  her  life. 
The  early  letters  of  Mrs.  Browning  to  Mr.  Home,  written 
before  her  marriage,  and  published  with  her  husband's  sanc- 
tion after  her  death,  are  full  of  the  suggestions  of  her  de- 
lightful fancy.  Take,  for  instance,  "  Sappho,  who  broke  off 
a  fragment  of  her  soul  for  us  to  guess  at."  Of  herself  she 
says  (apparently  in  answer  to  some  questions),  "  My  story 
amounts  to  the  knife-grinder's,  with  nothing  at  all  for  a 
catastrophe  !  A  bird  in  a  cage  would  have  as  good  a  story ; 
most  of  my  events  and  nearly  all  my  intense  pleasures  have 
passed  in  my  thoughts"  But  such  a  woman,  though  living 
so  quietly  and  thus  secluded  from  the  world,  could  not  have 
been  altogether  out  of  touch  with  its  changing  impressions. 
Here  is  an  instance  of  her  unconscious  presence  in  the 
minds  of  others:  "I  remember  all  those  sad  circumstances 
connected  with  the  last  doings  of  poor  Haydon."  Mr. 
Browning  writes  to  Professor  Knight,  in  1882  :  "He  never 
saw  my  wife,  but  interchanged  letters  with  her  occasionally. 
On  visiting  her,  the  day  before  the  painter's  death,  I  found 
her  room  occupied  by  a  quantity  of  studies — sketches  and 
portraits — which,  together  with  paints,  palettes,  and  brushes, 
he  had  chosen  to  send,  in  apprehension  of  an  arrest  or,  at 
all  events,  an  '  execution '  in  his  own  house.  The  letter 
which  apprised  her  of  this  step  said,  in  excuse  of  it,  '  they 
may  have  a  right  to  my  goods ;  they  can  have  none  to  my 
mere  work  tools  and  necessaries  of  existence,'  or  words  to 
that  effect.  The  next  morning  I  read  the  account  in  the 
Times,  and  myself  hastened  to  break  the  news  at  Wimpole 
Street,  but  had  been  anticipated.  Every  article  was  at  once 
sent  back,  no  doubt.  I  do  not  remember  noticing  Words- 
worth's portrait — it  never  belonged  to  my  wife,  certainly,  at 
any  time.  She  possessed  an  engraving  of  the  head  ;  I  sup- 
pose a  gift  from  poor  Haydon.  ..." 


Ill 


WHEN  Mrs.  Orr's  authoritative  history  of  Robert  Brown- 
ing appeared,  the  writer  felt  that  it  was  but  waste  of  time 
to  attempt  anything  like  a  biographical  record.  Hers  is 
but  a  personal  record  of  impressions  and  remembrances. 
Others,  with  more  knowledge  of  his  early  days,  have  de- 
scribed Robert  Browning  as  a  child,  as  a  boy,  and  a  very 
young  man.  How  interesting,  among  other  things,  is  the 
account  of  the  little  child  among  his  animals  and  pets ; 
and  of  the  tender  mother  taking  so  much  pains  to  find  the 
original  editions  of  Shelley  and  of  Keats,  and  giving  them 
to  her  boy  at  a  time  when  their  works  were  scarcely  to  be 
bought !  *  Browning  was  a  year  younger  than  my  own  fa- 
ther, and  was  born  at  Camberwell,  in  May,  1812.  He  went 
to  Italy  when  he  was  twenty  years  of  age,  and  there  he 
studied  hard,  laying  in  a  noble  treasury  of  facts  and  fancies 
to  be  dealt  out  in  after-life,  when  the  time  comes  to  draw 
upon  the  past,  upon  that  youth  which  age  spends  so  liber- 
ally, and  which  is  "  the  background  of  pale  gold "  upon 
which  all  our  lives  are  painted. 

Browning's  first  published  poem  was  "  Pauline,"  coming 
out  in  1833,  the  same  year  as  the  "  Miller's  Daughter  "  and 
the  "  Dream  of  Fair  Women."  And  we  are  also  told  that 


*  There  is  a  little  story  in  Mrs.  Orr's  book  which  Mr.  Browning  himself  once  told 
some  of  the  children  of  our  family :  how,  when  he  was  a  small  boy  at  school,  there  was 
one  solemn  day  in  the  week  when  all  the  little  scholars'  hairs  were  brushed  and  rubbed 
with  oil,  which  was  the  fashion  in  those  days,  while  their  mistress  chanted  Watts's 
hymns  to  them,  especially  that  one  which  begins  "Anoint  with  heavenly  grace." 

140 


ROBERT  BROWNING 
From  a  copyrighted  photograph  by  W.  H.  Grove,  174  Brompton  Road,  London 


Dante  Rossetti,  then  a  very  young  man,  admired  "  Pauline  " 
so  much  that  he  copied*  the  whole  poem  out  from  the  book 
in  the  British  Museum. 

In  1834  Robert  Browning  went  to  Russia,  and  there  wrote 
"  Porphyria's  Lover,"  published  by  Mr.  Fox  in  a  Unitarian 
magazine,  where  the  poem  must  have  looked  somewhat  out 
of  place.  It  was  at  Mr.  Fox's  house  that  Browning  first 
met  Macready. 

Notwithstanding  many  difference's  and  consequent  es- 
trangements, I  have  often  heard  Mr.  Browning  speak  of  the 
great  actor  with  interest  and  sympathy ;  the  last  time  being 
when  Recollections  of  Macready,  a  book  by  Lady  Pollock, 
had  just  come  out.  She  had  sent  Mr.  Browning  a  copy, 
with  which  he  was  delighted.  He  said  he  had  stopped  at 
home  all  that  winter's  day  reading  it  by  the  fire,  and  now 
that  dinner-time  was  come  he  could  quote  page  after  page 
from  memory.  His  memory  was  to  the  last  most  remark- 
able. 

There  is  a  touching  passage  in  Mrs.  Orr's  book  describ- 
ing the  meeting  of  Browning  and  Macready  after  their  long 
years  of  estrangement.  Both  had  seen  their  homes  wrecked 
and  desolate  ;  both  had  passed  through  deep  waters.  They 
met  unexpectedly  and  grasped  each  other's  hands  again. 
"Oh!  Macready,"  said  Browning.  And  neither  of  them 
could  speak  another  word. 

I  have  been  fortunate  for  years  past  in  being  able  to 
count  upon  the  help  of  a  recording  friend  and  neighbor,  to 
whom  I  sometimes  go  for  the  magic  of  a  suggestive  touch 
when  together  we  conjure  up  things  out  of  the  past. 

I  wrote  to  ask  Lady  Martin  about  the  production  of  Mr. 
Browning's  plays  upon  the  stage,  and  she  sent  me  the  fol- 
lowing account  of  her  recollections  of  "  Strafford ;"  nor  can 

*  The  writer  has  in  her  possession  a  book  in  which  her  own  father,  somewhere 
about  those  same  years,  copied  out  Tennyson's  "  Day  Dream  "  verse  by  verse. 

'43 


I  do  better  now  than  insert  her  answer  here  at  length,  for 
to  cut  out  any  word  is  to  destroy  the  impression  which  it 
gives : 

"  April  30, 1891,  BRIGHTON. 

"  The  production  of  Browning's  '  Strafford,'  which  you  ask  me  about, 
occurred  so  ear4y  in  my  career  that  anything  I  could  say  about  it  would 
be,  I  fear,  of  little  use  to  you.  I  was  so  young  then,  and  just  a  mere 
novice  in  my  art,  so  that  my  first  feeling,  when  I  heard  the  play  read, 
was  one  of  wonder  that  such  a  weighty  character  as  Lucy,  Countess  of 
Carlisle,  should  be  intrusted  to  my  hands.  I  was  told  that  Mr.  Brown- 
ing had  particularly  wished  me  to  undertake  it.  I  naturally  felt  the 
compliment  implied  in  the  wish,  but  this  only  increased  my  surprise, 
which  did  not  diminish  as  I  advanced  in  the  study  of  the  character. 

"  Lady  Carlisle,  as  drawn  by  Mr.  Browning,  a  woman  versed  in  all 
the  political  struggles  and  intrigues  of  the  times,  did  not  move  me.  The 
only  interest  she  awoke  in  me  was  due  to  her  silent  love  for  Strafford 
and  devotion  to  his  cause  ;  and  I  wondered  why,  depending  so  abso- 
lutely as  he  did  upon  her  sympathy,  her  intelligence,  her  complete  self- 
abnegation,  he  should  only  have,  in  the  early  part,  a  common  expression 
of  gratitude  to  give  her  in  return. 

"This  made  the  treatment  of  Lucy's  character,  as  you  will  readily 
see,  all  the  more  difficult  in  the  necessity  it  imposed  upon  me  of  letting 
her  feeling  be  seen  by  the  audience,  without  its  being  perceptible  to 
Strafford. 

"Of  course  I  did  my  best  to  carry  out  what  I  conceived  was  Mr. 
Browning's  view  ;  and  he,  at  all  events,  I  had  reason  to  know,  was  well 
satisfied  with  my  efforts.  I  had  met  him  at  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Macready's 
house  previously,  so  that  at  the  rehearsals  we  renewed  our  acquaintance. 

"I  suppose  he  was  nervous,  for  I  remember  Mr.  Macready  read  the 
play  to  us  in  the  greenroom.  And  how  finely  he  read  !  He  made  the 
smallest  part  distinct  and  prominent.  He  was  accused  of  under-reading 
his  own  part.  But  I  do  not  think  this  was  so. 

"At  the  rehearsals,  when  Mr.  Browning  was  introduced  to  those 
ladies  and  gentlemen  whom  he  did  not  know,  his  demeanor  was  so  kind, 
considerate,  and  courteous,  so  grateful  for  the  attention  shown  to  his 
wishes,  that  he  won  directly  the  warm  interest  of  all  engaged  in  the 
play.  So  it  was  that  although  many  doubtful  forecasts  were  made  in 
the  greenroom  as  to  the  ultimate  attraction  of  a  play  so  entirely  turn- 

144 


ing  on  politics,  yet  all  were  determined  to  do  their  very  best  to  insure 
its  success. 

"  In  the  play  Lucy  has  only  to  meet  Strafford,  King  Charles,  and 
Henrietta.  It  seemed  to  ine  that  Mr.  Macready's  Strafford  was  a  fine 
performance.  The  character  fitted  in  with  his  restless,  nervous,  change- 
able, impetuous,  and  emphatic  style.  He  looked  the  very  man  as  we 
knew  him  in  Vandyck's  famous  picture.  The  royal  personages  were 
very  feebly  represented.  I  could  not  help  feeling  in  the  scenes  with 
them  that  my  earnestness  was  overdone,  and  that  I  had  no  business  to 
appear  to  dominate  and  sway  and  direct  opinions  while  they  stood 
nerveless  by. 

' '  There  were  some  fine  moments  in  the  play.  The  last  scene  must 
have  been  very  exciting  and  touching.  Lucy  believes  that  by  her  means 
Strafford's  escape  is  certain  ;  but  when  the  water-gates  open,  with  the 
boat  ready  to  receive  him,  Pym  steps  out  of  it ! .  .  .  This  effect  was  most 
powerful. 

"  It  was  a  dreadful  moment.  My  heart  seemed  to  cease  to  beat.  I 
sank  on  my  knees,  burying  my  head  in  my  bosom,  and  stopping  my  ears 
with  my  hands  while  the  death-bell  tolled  for  Strafford. 

"I  can  remember  nothing  more  than  that  I  went  home  very  sad; 
for  although  the  play  was  considered  a  success,  yet,  somehow,  even  my 
small  experience  seemed  to  tell  me  it  would  not  be  a  very  long  life,  and 
that  perhaps  kind  Mr.  Browning  would  think  we  had  not  done  our  best 
for  him. 

"The  play  was  mounted  in  all  matters  with  great  care.  Modern 
critics  seem  to  have  little  knowledge  of  the  infinite  pains  bestowed  in 
all  respects  before  their  day  upon  the  representation  of  historical  and 
Shakespearian  plays  and  noteworthy  people  in  romance  or  history. 

"  I  can  see  my  gown  now  in  Lucy  Percy,  made  from  a  Vandyck 
picture,  and  remember  the  thought  bestowed  even  upon  the  kind  of  fur 
with  which  the  gown  was  trimmed.  The  same  minute  attention  to 
accuracy  of  costume  prevailed  in  all  the  characters  produced.  The 
scenery  was  alike  accurate,  if  not  so  full  of  small  details  as  at  present. 
The  human  beings  dominated  all. " 

I  need  scarcely  add  that  I  have  heard  from  others  of  Miss 
Helen  Faucit's  perfect  rendering  of  the  part  of  Lucy  Car- 
lisle. Browning  himself  spoke  of  Miss  Faucit's  "  playing 
as  an  actress,  and  her  perfect  behavior  as  a  woman." 

K  145 


IV 


MY  friend,  Professor  Knight,  has  kindly  given  me  leave 
to  quote  from  some  of  his  interesting  letters  from  Robert 
Browning.  One  most  interesting  record  describes  the  poet's 
own  first  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Kenyon.  The  letter  is 
dated  January  the  loth,  1884,  but  the  events  related,  of 
course,  to  some  forty  y  ears  before  : 

"With  respect  to  the  information  you  desire  about  Mr.  Kenyon,  all 
that  I  do  '  know  of  him  —  better  than  anybody,'  perhaps  —  is  his  great 
goodness  to  myself.  Singularly,  little  respecting  his  early  life  came  to 
my  knowledge.  He  was  the  cousin  of  Mr.  Barrett  ;  second  cousin, 
therefore,  of  my  wife,  to  whom  he  was  ever  deeply  attached.  I  first 
met  him  at  a  dinner  of  Sergeant  Talfourd's,  after  which  he  drew  his 
chair  by  mine  and  inquired  whether  my  father  had  been  his  old  school- 
fellow and  friend  at  Cheshunt,  adding  that,  in  a  poem  just  printed,  he 
had  been  commemorating  their  play -ground  fights,  armed  with  sword 
and  shield,  as  Achilles  and  Hector,  some  half-century  before.  On  tell- 
ing this  to  my  father  at  breakfast,  next  morning,  he  at  once,  with  a  pen- 
cil, sketched  me  the  boy's  handsome  face,  still  distinguishable  in  the 
elderly  gentleman's  I  had  made  acquaintance  with.  Mr.  Kenyon  at 
once  renewed  his  own  acquaintance  with  my  father,  and  became  my  fast 
friend  ;  hence  my  introduction  to  Miss  Barrett. 

"  He  was  one  of  the  best  of  human  beings,  with  a  general  sympathy 
for  excellence  of  every  kind.  He  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Words- 
worth, of  Southey,  of  Landor ;  and,  in  later  days,  was  intimate  with 
most  of  my  own  contemporaries  of  eminence.  I  believe  that  he  was 
born  in  the  West  Indies,  whence  his  property  was  derived,  as  was  that 
of  Mr.  Barrett,  persistently  styled  a  '  merchant '  by  biographers  who 
will  not  take  the  pains  to  do  more  than  copy  the  blunders  of  their  fore- 
runners in  the  business  of  article-mongery.  He  was  twice  married,  but 

146 


left  no  family.  I  should  suggest  "Mr.  Scharf  (of  the  National  1'ortrait 
Gallery)  as  a  far  more  qualified  informant  on  all  such  matters ;  my  own 
concern  having  mainly  been  with  his  exceeding  goodness  to  me  and 
mine." 


Mr.  Kenyon  has  sometimes  dined  with  my  father.  I  can 
remember  him,  and  also  a  smooth,  fair  printed  book  of  his 
poems,  with  broad  margins,  and  some  odd  suggestive  look 
of  its  author.  For  many  years  he  lived  in  Regent's  Park. 
After  his  death,  Mrs.  Bayne,  a  kind  and  hospitable  cousin 
of  my  father's,  dwelt  in  the  house  with  her  daughter,  who 
still  resides  there.  My  father  used  to  say  that  the  dining- 
room  was  the  prettiest  room  in  all  London.  It  has  wide 
green  windows  looking  across  the  park,  and  there  were  grace- 
ful pillars  to  support  the  bay.  As  I  sat  at  the  round-table  I 
used  to  hear  of  Mr.  Kenyon's  gatherings  and  the  friends  who 
met  in  the  pretty  sunny  room  where  his  picture  still  hangs, 
and  where  so  many  of  his  guests  returned  at  the  summons  of 
their  kind  hostess.  I  remember  my  father  sitting  there  and 
talking  of  the  past,  with  affectionate  words  of  remembrance, 
and  Mr.  Browning  used  to  be  often  present  with  another  of 
Mrs.  Bayne's  old  friends,  Dr.  Connop  Thirlwall ;  and  as  one 
thinks  of  it  all,  one  feels,  perhaps,  that  to  remember  old 
friends  in  peaceful  festive  hours  is  better  for  our  souls  than 
all  the  memento  mori  that  ever  were  set  up  by  perverse  mor- 
tals struggling  in  vain  against  the  repeated  benedictions  of 
Providence. 

As  we  all  know,  it  was  Mr.  Kenyon  who  first  introduced 
Robert  Browning  to  his  future  wife ;  and  the  story,  as 
told  by  Mrs.  Orr,  is  most  romantic.  The  poet  was  about 
thirty-two  years  of  age  at  this  time,  in  the  fulness  of  his 
powers.  She  was  supposed  to  be  a  confirmed  invalid,  con- 
fined to  her  own  room  and  to  her  couch,  seeing  no  one, 
living  her  own  spiritual  life  indeed,  but  looking  for  none 


other,  when  her  cousin  first  brought  Mr.  Browning  to  the 
house.  Miss  Barrett's  reputation  was  well  established  by 
this  time.  "  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship  "  was  already  pub- 
lished, in  which  the  author  had  written  of  Browning,  among 
other  poets,  as  of  "  some  pomegranate,  which,  if  cut  deep 
down  the  middle,  shows  a  heart  within  blood-tinctured,  of  a 
veined  humanity;"  and  one  can  well  believe  that  this  present 
meeting  must  have  been  but  a  phase  in  an  old  and  long-exist- 
ing sympathy  between  kindred  spirits.  Very  soon  afterwards 
the  two  became  engaged,  and  they  were  married  at  Mary-le- 
Bone*  Parish  Church  in  the  autumn  of  the  year  1846. 

Who  does  not  know  the  story  of  this  marriage  of  true 
souls?  Has  not  Mrs.  Browning  herself  spoken  of  it  in 
words  indelible  and  never  to  be  quoted  without  sympathy 
by  all  women ;  while  he  from  his  own  fireside  has  struck 
chord  after  chord  of  manly  feeling  than  which  this  life  con- 
tains nothing  deeper  or  more  true. 

The  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  were  written  by  Eliza- 
beth Barrett  to  Mr.  Browning  before  her  marriage,  although 
she  never  even  showed  them  to  him  till  some  years  after 
they  were  man  and  wife.  They  were  sonnets  such  as  no 
Portuguese  ever  wrote  before,  or  ever  will  write  again. 
There  is  a  quality  in  them  which  is  beyond  words,  that 
echo  which  belongs  to  the  highest  human  expression  of 
feeling.  But  such  a  love  to  such  a  woman  comes  with  its 
own  Testament. 

Some  years  before  her  marriage  the  doctors  had  positively 
declared  that  Miss  Barrett's  life  depended  upon  her  leaving 
England  for  the  winter,  and  immediately  after  their  marriage 
Mr.  Browning  took  his  wife  abroad. 

Mrs.  Jameson  was  at  Paris  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning 
arrived  there.  There  is  an  interesting  account  of  the  meet- 


*  See  Biographical  Dictionary. 
148 


ing,  and  of  their  all  journeying  together  southward  by  Avig- 
non and  Vaucluse.*  Can  this  be  the  life-long  invalid  of 
whom  we  read,  perching  out-of-doors  upon  a  rock,  among 
the  shallow,  curling  waters  of  a  stream  ?  They  come  to  a 
rest  at  Pisa,  whence  Mrs.  Browning  writes  to  her  old  friend, 
Mr.  Home,  to  tell  him  of  her  marriage,  adding  that  Mrs. 
Jameson  calls  her,  notwithstanding  all  the  emotion  and  fa- 
tigue of  the  last  six  weeks,  rather  "transformed"  than  im- 
proved. From  Pisa  the  new-married  pair  went  to  Florence, 
where  they  finally  settled,  and  where  their  boy  was  born  in 
1849. 

Poets  are  painters  in  words,  and  the  color  and  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  country  to  which  they  belong  seem  to  be  re- 
peated almost  unconsciously  in  their  work  and  its  setting. 
Mrs.  Browning  was  an  Englishwoman  ;  though  she  lived  in 
Italy,  though  she  died  in  Florence,  though  she  loved  the 
land  of  her  adoption,  yet  she  never,  for  all  that,  ceased  to 
breathe  her  native  air,  as  she  sat  by  the  Casa  Guidi  windows  ; 
and  though  Italian  sunshine  dazzled  her  dark  eyes,  and 
Italian  voices  echoed  in  the  street,  though  her  very  ink  was 
mixed  with  the  waters  of  the  Arno,  she  still  wrote  of  Here- 
fordshire lakes  and  hills,  of  the  green  land  where  "  jocund 
childhood "  played  "  dimpled  close  with  hills  and  valley, 
dappled  very  close  with  shade."  .  .  .  Now  that  the  writer 
has  seen  the  first  home  and  the  last  home  of  that  kind  friend 
of  her  girlhood,  it  seems  to  her  as  if  she  could  better  listen 
to  that  poet's  song  growing  sweeter,  as  all  true  music  does, 
with  years. 

We  had  been  spending  an  autumn  month  in  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's country  when  we  drove  to  visit  the  scene  of  her  early 
youth,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  an  echo  of  her  melody  was 
still  vibrating  from  hedge-row  to  hedge-row,  even  though  the 


*  Life  of  Mrs.  Jameson,  by  Mrs.  Macpherson. 
149 


birds  were  silent,  and  though  summer  and  singing-time  were 
over.  We  drove  along,  my  little  son  and  I,  towards  Hope 
End,  by  a  road  descending  gradually  from  the  range  of  the 
Malvern  Hills  into  the  valley — it  ran  across  commons 
sprinkled  with  geese  and  with  lively  donkeys,  and  skirted 
by  the  cottages  still  alight  with  sunflowers  and  nasturtium 
beds,  for  they  were  sheltered  from  the  cold  wind  by  the 
range  of  purple  hills  "  looming  a-row ;"  then  we  dipped  into 
lanes  between  high  banks  heaped  with  ferns  and  leaves  of 
every  shade  of  burnished  gold  and  brown,  fenced  up  by  the 
twisting  roots  of  the  chestnuts  and  oak-trees ;  and  all  along 
the  way,  as  our  old  white  horse  jogged  steadily  on,  we  could 
see  the  briers  and  the  blackberry  sprays  travelling  too,  ad- 
vancing from  tree  to  tree  and  from  hedge  to  hedge,  flashing 
their  long  flaming  brands  and  warning  tokens  of  winter's 
approaching  armies.  The  wind  was  cold  and  in  the  north, 
the  sky  overhead  was  broken  and  stormy.  Sometimes  we 
dived  into  sudden  glooms  among  rocks  overhung  with  ivy 
and  thick  brushwood ;  then  we  came  out  into  the  open 
again,  and  caught  sight  of  vast  skies  dashed  with  strange 
lights,  a  wonderful  cloud-capped  country  up  above,  where 
the  storm-clouds  reared  their  vast  piles  out  of  sapphire 
depths  — 

...  "a  boundless  depth 
Far  sinking  into  splendor  without  end." 

Our  adventures  were  not  along  the  road,  but  chiefly  over- 
head. My  boy  amused  himself  by  counting  the  broken 
rainbows  and  the  hail -storms  falling  in  the  distance;  and 
then  at  last,  just  as  we  were  getting  cold  and  tired,  we 
turned  into  the  lodge  gates  of  Hope  End. 

I  don't  know  how  the  park  strikes  other  people  ;  to  me, 
who  paid  this  one  short  visit,  it  seemed  a  sort  of  enchanted 
garden  revealed  for  an  hour,  and  I  almost  expected  that  it 


MRS.  BROWNING'S  TOMB  AT  FLORENCE 


would  then  vanish  away.*  Everything  was  wild,  abrupt,  and 
yet  suddenly  harmonious.  We  passed  an  unsuspected  lake 
covered  with  water-lilies.  A  flock  of  sheep  at  full  gallop 
plunged  across  the  road  ;  then  came  ponies,  with  long  manes 
and  round,  wondering  eyes,  trotting  after  us.  Sometimes  in 
the  Alps  one  has  met  such  herds,  wild  creatures,  sympathet- 
ic, not  yet  afraid !  Finally  we  caught  sight  of  the  river, 

*  "  Here's  the  garden  she  walked  across  .  .  . 
Down  this  side  of  the  gravel  walk 
She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the  box  : 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 
To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  flox. 
Roses  ranged  in  valiant  row 
I  will  never  think  she  passed  you  by'.".  .  . 

Garden  Fancies,  R.  B. 
'5' 


where  a  couple  of  water-fowl  were  Hying  into  the  sedges. 
But  where  was  the  wild  swan's  nest,  and  why  was  not  the 
great  god  Pan  there  blowing  upon  his  reed  ?  It  all  seemed 
so  natural  and  so  vivid  that  I  should  not  have  been  startled 
to  see  him  sitting  quietly  by  the  side  of  the  river. 


THE  only  memoranda  I  ever  made  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
talk  was  when  I  was  quite  a  young  girl  keeping  a  diary,  and 
I  heard  her  saying  that  Tennyson's  Maud  was  "  splendid ;" 
and  "  that  without  illness  she  saw  no  reason  why  the  mind 
should  ever  fail."  The  visitor  to  whom  she  expressed  this 
opinion  seems  to  have  come  away  with  me  complaining  that 
the  conversation  had  been  too  matter-of-fact,  too  much  to 
the  point ;  nothing  romantic,  nothing  poetic,  such  as  one 
might  expect  from  a  poet !  Another  person  also  present 
had  answered  that  was  just  the  reason  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
power — she  kept  her  poetry  for  her  poetry,  and  didn't  scat- 
ter it  about  in  conversation  where  it  was  not  wanted ;  and 
then  follows  a  girlish  note  in  the  old  diary :  "  I  think  Mrs. 
Browning  is  the  greatest  woman  I  ever  saw  in  all  my  life. 
She  is  very  small,  she  is  brown,  with  dark  eyes  and  dead 
brown  hair ;  she  has  white  teeth,  and  a  low,  curious  voice ; 
she  has  a  manner  full  of  charm  and  kindness ;  she  rarely 
laughs,  but  is  always  cheerful  and  smiling ;  her  eyes  are  very 
bright.  Her  husband  is  not  unlike  her.  He  is  short ;  he  is 
dark,  with  a  frank,  open  countenance,  long  hair,  streaked 
with  gray;  he  opens  his  mouth  wide  when  he  speaks;  he 
has  white  teeth  ;"  and  there  the  diary  wanders  off. 

When  I  first  remember  Mr.  Browning  he  was  a  compara- 


tively  young  man — though,  for  the  matter  of  that,  he  was 
always  young,  as  his  father  had  been  before  him — and  he 
was  also  happy  in  this,  that  the  length  of  his  life  can  best  be 
measured  by  his  work.  In  those  days  I  had  not  read  one 
single  word  of  his  poetry,  but  somehow  one  realized  that  it 
was  there.  Almost  the  first  time  I  ever  really  recall  Mr. 
Browning,  he  and  my  father  and  Mrs.  Browning*  were  dis- 
cussing spiritualism  in  a  very  human  and  material  fashion, 
each  holding  to  their  own  point  of  view,  and  my  sister  and 
I  sat  by  listening  and  silent.  My  father  was  always  im- 
mensely interested  by  the  stories  told  of  Spiritualism  and 
table-turning,  though  he  certainly  scarcely  believed  half 
of  them.  Mrs.  Browning  believed,  and  Mr.  Browning  was 
always  irritated  beyond  patience  by  the  subject.  I  can  re- 
member her  voice,  a  sort  of  faint  minor  chord,  as  she,  lisp- 
ing the  "  r  "  a  little,  uttered  her  remonstrating  "  Robert !" 
and  his  loud,  dominant  barytone  sweeping  away  every  pos- 
sible plea  she  and  my  father  could  make ;  and  then  came 
my  father's  deliberate  notes,  which  seemed  to  fall  a  little 
sadly — his  voice  always  sounded  a  little  sad — upon  the  ris- 
ing waves  of  the  discussion.  I  think  this  must  have  been 
just  before  we  all  went  to  Rome — it  was  in  the  morning, 
in  some  foreign  city.  I  can  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning, 
with  their  faces  turned  towards  the  window,  and  my  fa- 
ther with  his  back  to  it,  and  all  of  us  assembled  in  a  little 
high-up  room.  Mr.  Browning  was  dressed  in  a  brown  rough 
suit,  and  his  hair  was  black  hair  then,  and  she,  as  far  as  I 
can  remember,  was,  as  usual,  in  soft-falling  flounces  of  black 
silk,  and  with  her  heavy  curls  drooping,  and  a  thin  gold 
chain  hanging  round  her  neck. 

In  the  winter  of  1853-54  we  lived  in  Rome,  in  the  Via  della 
Croce,  and  the  Brownings  lived  in  the  Bocca  di  Leone,  hard 

*  An  ambiguous  extract  in  Mrs.  Orr's  Life  of  Browning  has  only  recalled  my  own 
most  vivid  impression  of  the  happy  relations  between  my  father  and  Mrs.  Browning. 

'53 


by.  The  evenings  our  father  dined  away  from  home  our  old 
donna  (so  I  think  cooks  used  to  be  called)  would  conduct 
us  to  our  tranquil  dissipations,  through  the  dark  streets,  past 
the  swinging  lamps,  up  and  down  the  black  stone  staircases; 
and  very  frequently  we  spent  an  evening  with  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing in  her  quiet  room,  while  Mr.  Browning  was  out  visiting 
some  of  the  many  friends  who  were  assembled  in  Rome 
that  year.  At  ten  o'clock  came  our  father's  servant  to  fetch 
us  back,  with  the  huge  key  of  our  own  somewhat  imposing 
palazzo.  It  was  a  happy  and  an  eventful  time,  all  the  more 
eventful  and  happy  to  us  for  the  presence  of  the  two  kind 
ladies,  Mrs.  Browning  and  Mrs.  Sartoris,  who  befriended  us. 
I  can  also  remember  one  special  evening  at  Mrs.  Sartoris's, 
when  a  certain  number  of  people  were  sitting  just  before 
dinner-time  in  one  of  those  lofty  Roman  drawing-rooms, 
which  become  so  delightful  when  they  are  inhabited  by  Eng- 
lish people — which  look  so  chill  and  formal  in  their  natural 
condition.  This  saloon  was  on  the  first  floor,  with  great 
windows  at  the  farther  end.  It  was  all  full  of  a  certain 
mingled  atmosphere,  of  flowers  and  light  and  comfort  and 
color.  It  was  in  contrast  but  not  out  of  harmony  with  Mrs. 
Browning's  quiet  room — in  both  places  existed  the  individu- 
ality which  real  home-makers  know  how  to  give  to  their 
homes.  Here  swinging  lamps  were  lighted  up,  beautiful 
things  hung  on  the  wall,  the  music  came  and  went  as  it  listed, 
a  great  piano  was  drawn  out  and  open,  the  tables  were  piled 
with  books  and  flowers.  Mrs.  Sartoris,  the  lady  of  the  shrine, 
dressed  in  some  flowing,  pearly  satin  tea-gown,  was  sitting  by 
a  round-table  reading  to  some  other  women  who  had  come 
to  see  her.  She  was  reading  from  a  book  of  Mr.  Brown- 
ing's poems  which  had  lately  appeared ;  and  as  she  read  in 
her  wonderful  muse -like  way  she  paused,  she  reread  the 
words,  and  she  emphasized  the  lines,  then  stopped  short, 
the  others  exclaiming,  half  laughing,  half  protesting.  ...  It 


was  a  lively,  excitable  party,  outstaying  the  usual  hour  of  a 
visit ;  questioning,  puzzling,  and  discursive  —  a  Browning 
society  of  the  past — into  the  midst  of  which  a  door  opens 
(and  it  is  this  fact  which  recalls  it  to  my  mind),  and  Mr. 
Browning  himself  walks  in,  and  the  burst  of  voices  is  sud- 
denly reduced  to  one  single  voice,  that  of  the  hostess,  call- 
ing him  to  her  side,  and  asking  him  to  define  his  meaning. 
But  he  evaded  the  question,  began  to  talk  of  something  else 
— he  never  much  cared  to  talk  of  his  own  poetry — and  the 
Browning  society  dispersed. 

Mrs.  Sartoris  used  to  like  to  speak  of  a  certain  luncheon 
to  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning  once  invited  them  when 
they  were  all  staying  in  some  country  place  in  Italy,  and 
which,  so  she  always  said,  was  one  of  the  most  delightful 
entertainments  she  could  remember  in  all  her  life.  One 
wonders  whether  the  guests  or  the  hosts  contributed  most. 
Each  one  has  been  happy  and  talked  his  or  her  best,  and 
when  the  Sartorises  got  up  reluctantly  to  go,  saying,  "  How 
delightful  it  has  been,"  Mr.  Browning  cried,  "  Come  back 
to  sup  with  us,  do ;"  and  Mrs.  Browning  exclaimed,  "  Oh, 
Robert,  how  can  you  ask  them  !  There  is  no  supper,  noth- 
ing but  the  remains  of  the  pie."  And  then,  cries  Robert 
Browning,  "  Well,  come  back  and  finish  the  pie." 

The  Pall  Mall  Gazette  of  April  9,  1891,  contains  an 
amusing  account  of  a  journey  from  London  to  Paris  taken 
forty  years  ago  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning.  The  compan- 
ion they  carried  with  them  writes  of  the  expedition,  dating 
from  Chelsea,  September  4,  1851  : 

' '  The  day  before  yesterday,  near  midnight,  I  returned  from  a  very 
short  and  very  insignificant  excursion  to  Paris,  which,  after  a  month  at 
Malvern  water-cure  and  then  a  ten  days  at  Scotsbrig,  concludes  my 
travels  for  this  year.  Miserable  puddle  and  tumult  all  my  travels  are  ; 
of  no  use  to  me  except  to  bring  agitation,  sleeplessness,  sorrow,  and  dis- 
tress. Better  not  to  travel  at  all  unless  when  I  am  bound  to  do  it.  But 


this  tour  to  Paris  was  a  promised  one.  I  had  engaged  to  meet  the  Ash- 
burtons  (Lord  and  Lady)  there,  on  their  return  from  Switzerland  and 
Hamburg,  before  either  party  left  London.  The  time  at  last  suited  ; 
all  was  ready  except  will  on  my  part ;  so,  after  hesitation  and  painful 
indecision  enough,  I  did  resolve,  packed  my  baggage  again,  and  did  the 
little  tour  I  stood  engaged  for." 

The  chronicle  begins  on  Monday,  September  2ist,  when 
" Brother  John"  and  Carlyle  go  to  Chorley  to  consult  about 
passports,  routes,  and  conditions.  .  .  . 

"At  Chapman's  shop  I  learned  that  Robert  Browning  (poet)  and  his 
wife  were  just  about  setting  out  for  Paris.  I  walked  to  their  place  ; 
had,  during  that  day  and  the  following,  consultations  with  these  fellow- 
pilgrims,  and  decided  to  go  with  them  via  Dieppe  on  Thursday.  .  .  . 

"  Up,  accordingly,  on  Thursday  morning,  in  unutterable  flurry  and  tu- 
mult— phenomena  on  the  Thames  all  dream-like,  one  spectralism  chasing 
another — to  the  station  in  good  time  ;  found  the  Brownings  just  arriv- 
ing, which  seemed  a  good  omen.  Browning  with  wife  and  child  and 
maid,  then  an  empty  seat  for  cloaks  and  baskets  ;  lastly,  at  the  opposite 
end  from  me,  a  hard-faced,  honest  Englishman  or  Scotchman  all  in  gray 
with  a  gray  cap,  who  looked  rather  ostrich-like,  but  proved  very  harm- 
less and  quiet — this  was  the  loading  of  our  carriage  ;  and  so  away  we 
went,  Browning  talking  very  loud  and  with  vivacity,  I  silent  rather, 
tending  towards  many  thoughts.  .  .  . 

"  Our  friends,  especially  our  French  friends,  were  full  of  bustle,  full 
of  noise,  at  starting  ;  but  so  soon  as  we  had  cleared  the  little  channel  of 
Newhaven,  and  got  into  the  sea  or  British  Channel,  all  this  abated, 
sank  into  the  general  sordid  torpor  of  sea-sickness,  with  its  miserable 
noises — '  houhah,  hoh  !' — and  hardly  any  other,  amid  the  rattling  of  the 
wind  and  sea.  A  sorry  phasis  of  humanity !  Browning  was  sick — lay 
in  one  of  the  bench  tents  horizontal,  his  wife  below.  I  was  not  abso- 
lutely sick,  but  had  to  be  quite  quiet  and  without  comfort,  save  in  one 
cigar,  for  seven  or  eight  hours  of  blustering,  spraying,  and  occasional 


And  so  with  mention  of  prostration  into  doleful  silence, 
of  evanition  into  utter  darkness,  of  the  poor  Frenchman  who 
was  so  lively  at  starting,  the  story  continues : 

156 


"At  Dieppe,  while  the  others  were  in  the  hotel  having  some  very 
bad  cold,  tea  and  colder  coffee,  Browning  was  passing  our  luggage, 
brought  it  all  in  safe  about  half-past  ten  o'clock,  and  we  could  address 
ourselves  to  repose.  So  '  to  bed  in  my  upper  room,  bemoaned  by  the  sea 
and  small  incidental  noises  of  the  harbor.  .  .  .  Next  morning  Browning, 
as  before,  did  everything.  I  sat  out-of-doors  on  some  logs  at  my  ease, 
and  smoked,  looking  at  the  population  and  their  ways.  Browning 
fought  for  us,  and  we — that  is,  the  woman,  the  child,  and  I — had  only 
to  wait  and  be  silent." ...  At  Paris  the  travellers  came  into  a  '  crowding, 
jingling,  vociferous  tumult,  in  which  the  brave  Browning  fought  for  us, 
leaving  me  to  sit  beside  the  woman.'  " 

Mr.  Browning  once  told  us  a  little  anecdote  of  the  Car- 
lyles  at  tea  in  Cheyne  Row,  and  of  Mrs.  Carlyle  pouring 
out  the  tea,  while  a  brass  kettle  was  boiling  on  the  hob,  and 
Mr.  Browning,  presently  seeing  that  the  kettle  was  needed 
and  that  Carlyle  was  not  disposed  to  move,  rose  from  his 
own  chair,  and  filled  the  teapot  for  his  hostess,  and  then 
stood  by  her  tea-table  still  talking  and  absently  holding  the 
smoking  kettle  in  his  hand. 

"Can't  you  put  it  down?"  said  Mrs.  Carlyle,  suddenly; 
and  Mr.  Browning,  confused  and  somewhat  absent,  imme- 
diately popped  the  kettle  down  upon  the  carpet,  which  was 
a  new  one. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  exclaimed  in  horror — I  have  no  doubt  she 
was  half-laughing — "  See  how  fine  he  has  grown  !  He  does 
not  any  longer  know  what  to  do  with  the  kettle." 

And,  sure  enough,  when  Mr.  Browning  penitently  took  it 
up  again,  a  brown  oval  mark  was  to  be  seen  clearly  stamped 
and  burned  upon  the  new  carpet.  "  You  can  imagine  what 
I  felt,"  said  Mr.  Browning.  "  Carlyle  came  to  my  rescue. 
*  Ye  should  have  been  more  explicit,'  said  he  to  his  wife." 

157 


VI 


WHEN  my  father  went  for  the  second  time  to  America, 
in  1856,  my  sister  and  I  remained  behind,  and  for  a  couple 
of  days  we  stayed  on  in  our  home  before  going  to  Paris. 
Those  days  of  parting  are  always  sad  ones,  and  we  were 
dismally  moping  about  the  house  and  preparing  for  our  own 
journey  when  we  were  immensely  cheered  by  a  visitor.  It 
was  Mr.  Browning,  who  came  in  to  see  us,  and  who  brought 
us  an  affectionate  little  note  from  his  wife.  We  were  to 
go  and  spend  the  evening  with  them,  the  kind  people 
said.  They  had  Mr.  Kenyon's  brougham  at  their  disposal, 
and  it  would  come  and  fetch  us  and  take  us  back  at  night, 
and  so  that  first  sad  evening  passed  far  more  happily 
than  we  could  ever  have  imagined  possible.  I  remember 
feeling,  as  young  people  do,  utterly,  hopelessly  miserable, 
and  then  suddenly  very  cheerful  every  now  and  then.  I 
believe  my  father  had  planned  it  all  with  them  before  he 
went  away. 

This  was  in  the  autumn  of  1856,  and  Aurora  Leigh  was 
published  in  1857.  It  was  on  the  occasion  of  this  journey 
home  to  England  that  the  MS.  of  the  poem  was  lost  in  a 
box  at  Marseilles. 

In  this  same  box  were  also  carefully  put  away  certain  vel- 
vet suits  and  lace  collars,  in  which  the  little  son  was  to 
make  his  appearance  among  his  English  relatives.  Who 
shall  blame  Mrs.  Browning  if  her  taste  in  boy's  costume 
was  somewhat  too  fanciful  and  poetic  for  the  days  in  which 
she  lived?  At  any  rate,  her  chief  concern  was  not  for  her 

158 


MR.   MILSAND 
copyrighted  photograph  by  Julia  Margaret  Ca 


MSS.,  but  for  the  loss  of  her  little  boy's  wardrobe,  which 
had  been  devised  with  so  much  motherly  pride. 

Happily  for  the  world  at  large,  one  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
brothers  chanced  to  pass  through  Marseilles,  and  the  box  was 
discovered  by  him  stowed  away  in  a  cellar  at  the  customs. 

We  must  have  met  again  in  Paris  later  in  this  same  year. 
The  Brownings  had  an  apartment  near  the  Rond-Point,  and 
we  were  living  close  by  with  our  grandparents  during  my 
father's  absence.  We  used  frequently  to  go  and  see  them, 
only  to  find  again  the  same  warm  and  tranquil  atmosphere 
that  we  used  to  breathe  at  Rome — the  sofa  drawn  out,  the 
tiny  lady  in  the  corner,  the  sun  dazzling  in  at  the  window. 
On  one  occasion  Mr.  Hamilton  Aide  was  paying  a  visit.  He 
had  been  talking  about  books,  and,  half  laughing,  he  turned 
to  a  young  woman  who  had  just  come  in,  and  asked  her 
when  her  forthcoming  work  would  be  ready.  Young  persons 
are  ashamed,  and  very  properly  so,  of  their  early  failures,  of 
their  pattes  de  mouches  and  wild  attempts  at  authorship,  and 
this  one  was  no  exception  to  the  common  law,  and  answered 
"  Never,"  somewhat  too  emphatically.  And  then  it  was  that 
Mr.  Browning  spoke  one  of  those  chance  sayings  which  make 
headings  to  the  chapters  of  one's  life.  "  All  in  good  time," 
he  said,  and  he  went  on  to  ask  us  all  if  we  remembered  the 
epitaph  on  the  Roman  lady  who  sat  at  home,  who  spun 
wool.  "You  must  spin  your  wool  some  day,"  he  said, 
kindly,  to  the  would-be  authoress  ;  "  every  woman  has  wool 
to  spin  of  some  sort  or  another ;  isn't  it  so  ?"  he  asked,  and 
he  turned  to  his  wife. 

I  went  home  feeling  quite  impressed  by  the  little  speech, 
it  had  been  so  gravely  and  kindly  made.  My  blurred  pages 
looked  altogether  different  somehow.  It  was  spinning  wool 
— it  was  not  wasting  one's  time,  one's  temper — it  was  some- 
thing more  than  spoiling  paper  and  pens.  And  this  much 
I  may  perhaps  add  for  the  comfort  of  the  future  race  of 


authoresses  who  are  now  twisting  the  cocoons  from  which 
the  fluttering  butterflies  and  Psyches  yet  to  be  will  emerge 
some  day  upon  their  wings :  never  has  anything  given  more 
trouble  or  seemed  more  painfully  hopeless  than  those  early 
incoherent  pages,  so  full  of  meaning  to  one's  self,  so  abso- 
lutely idiotic  in  expression.  In  later  life  the  words  come 
easily,  only  too  readily ;  but  then  it  is  the  meaning  which 
lags  behind. 

It  was  in  that  same  apartment  that  I  remember  hearing 
Mr.  Browning  say  (across  all  these  long  years) :  "  It  may 
seem  to  you  strange  that  such  a  thing  as  poetry  should  be 
written  with  regularity  at  the  same  hour  in  every  day.  But, 
nevertheless,  I  do  assure  you  it  is  a  fact  that  my  wife  and  I 
sit  down  every  morning  after  breakfast  to  our  separate  work ; 
she  writes  in  the  drawing-room  and  I  write  in  here,"  he  said, 
opening  a  door  into  a  little  back  empty  room  with  a  window 
over  a  court.  And  then  he  added,  "  I  never  read  a  word  of 
hers  until  I  see  it  all  finished  and  re"ady  for  publication." 

Among  the  people  that  belong  to  these  old  Paris  days, 
there  is  one  friend  of  very  early  date  v/hom  we  used  to  meet 
from  time  to  time  with  Mr.  and  Miss  Browning  at  the  house 
of  Mrs.  Corkran  and  elsewhere ;  this  was  Mr.  Milsand,  a 
man  to  whom  every  one  turned  with  instinctive  trust  and 
sympathy,  a  slight  body,  a  great  and  generous  nature.  Mr. 
Browning  has  described  him  in  "  Red  Cotton  Nightcap 
Country  " — "  a  man  of  men  "  he  calls  him  : 

"Talk  to  him  for  five  minutes, 
Nonsense,  sense,  no  matter  what  .  .   . 
There  he  stands,  reads  an  English  newspaper, 
Stock  still,  and  now  again  upon  the  move 
Paces  the  beach,  to  taste  the  spring  like  you 
(Since  both  are  human  beings  in  God's  eyes)  ; 
That  man  will  read  you  rightly  head  to  foot." 
162 


A  little  further  on  follows  a  touching,  outspoken  expres- 
sion of  true  feeling : 

"  He  knows  more  and  loves  better  than  the  world 
That  never  heard  his  name  and  never  may  .   .  . 
What  hinders  that  my  heart  relieve  itself  : 
'  O  friend  !   who  makest  warm  my  wintry  world, 
And  wise  my  heaven,  if  there  we  consort  too.'" 

To  Mr.  Milsancl,  Browning  has  dedicated  one  of  the  later 
editions  of  "  Sordello  "  and  others  of  his  poems.  By  the 
kindness  of  Madame  Milsand  I  am  able  to  give  some  pas- 
sages of  Mr.  Browning's  correspondence  with  his  friend. 
She  has  sent  me  the  letters  from  her  home  at  Dijon,  and 
with  the  letters  comes  a  little  humorous  sketch  by  the  poet, 
of  which  a  fac-simile  is  given  here  : 

"  FLORENCE,  February  24,  '58. 

"  It  is  far  too  many  weeks  now,  my  dear  Milsand,  since  we  got  your 
letter — and  certainly  it  has  never  been  out  of  sight  any  more  than  out 
of  mind,  for  I  put  it  over  the  fireplace  where  we  both  sit  these  long  win- 
ter evenings,  and  often,  indeed,  a  glance  at  it  has  brought  you  beside 
us  again,  as  on  those  pleasant  Paris  evenings.  We  English  have  a  su- 
perstition that  when  people  talk  of  us  our  ears  burn  —  have  yours 
caused  you  any  serious  inconvenience  that  way  ?  You  know  we  three 
have  long  since  passed  the  stage  in  friendship  when  assurances  are 
necessary  to  any  one  of  us.  For  us  two  here,  we  gained  nothing  by 
our  sojourn  in  Paris  like  the  knowledge  and  love  of  you,  and  yet  Paris 
gave  us  many  valuable  things.  One  day,  in  all  probability,  we  shall 
come  together  again,  and  meantime  the  news  of  you,  though  never  so 
slight,  will  be  a  delight  to  us,  yet  your  letter  has  been  all  this  time  un- 
answered ;  but  one  reason  was  that  only  in  the  last  day  or  two  have  I 
been  able  to  get  the  review  with  your  article  in ;  it  is  here  on  the  table 
at  last.  In  what  is  it  obscure?  Strong,  condensed,  and  direct  it  is, 
and  no  doubt  the  common  readers  of  easy  writing  feel  oppressed  by 
twenty  pages  of  such  masculine  stuff.  .  .  .  My  wife  will  write  a  few  lines 
about  ourselves ;  she  is  suffering  a  little  from  the  cold  which  has  come 
late,  nor  very  severely  either,  but  enough  to  influence  her  more  than 

'63 


I  could  wish.  We  live  wholly  alone  here ;  I  have  not  left  the  house 
one  evening  since  our  return.  I  am  writing — a  first  step  towards  pop- 
ularity for  me — lyrics  with  more  music  and  painting  than  before,  so  as 
to  get  people  to  hear  and  see  .  .  .  something  to  follow  if  I  can  com- 
pass it.  ... 

"I  have  a  new  acquaintance  here,  much  to  my  taste — Tennyson's 
eldest  brother,  who  has  long  been  settled  here,  with  many  of  his  brother's 
qualities  :  a  very  earnest,  simple,  and  truthful  man,  with  many  admirable 
talents  and  acquirements,  the  whole  sicklied  o'er  by  an  inordinate  dose  of 
our  English  disease,  shyness  ;  he  sees  next  to  no  company,  but  conies 
here,  and  we  walk  together.  ...  I  knew  too  little  of  Mr.  Darley.*  Will 
he  keep  the  slender  memory  of  me  he  may  have,  and  do  you,  dear  Mil- 
sand,  ever  know  me  for  yours  affectionately,  R.  B." 

In  this  same  letter  there  is  a  paragraph  which  runs  as 
follows : 

"  Helen  Faucit  is  going  to  produce  an  old  play  of  mine,  never  acted, 
at  the  Haymarket,  "  Colombo's  Birthday;"  look  out  for  it  in  April,  keep- 
ing in  mind  the  proverbial  uncertainty  of  things  theatrical.  My  main 
hope  of  its  success  lies  in  its  being  wholly  an  actor's  and  manager's 
speculation,  not  the  writer's." 


VII 


IT  was  in  Florence  Mrs.  Browning  wrote  Casa  Guidi  Win- 
dows^ containing  the  wonderful  description  of  the  proces- 
sion passing  by,  and  that  noble  apostrophe  to  freedom  be- 
ginning, "  O  !  magi  from  East  and  from  the  West."  Aurora 
Leigh  was  also  written  here,  which  the  author  herself  calls 
"  the  most  mature  of  her  works,"  the  one  into  which  her 

*  The  writer  has  left  the  little  message  to  Mr.  Darley,  which  commemorates  anoth- 
er very  early  recollection :  that  of  a  gentle,  handsome  painter,  whom  she  as  a  child  re- 
members. His  paintings  made  no  particular  impression  upon  us  all,  but  his  kind 
tranquillity  of  manner  and  courteous  ways  are  not  to  be  forgotten. 

t  See  Biographical  Dictionary. 

164 


highest  convictions  have  entered.  The  poem  is  full  of 
beauty  from  the  first  page  to  the  last,  and  beats  time  to  a 
noble  human  heart.  The  opening  scenes  in  Italy;  the  im- 
pression of  light,  of  silence ;  the  beautiful  Italian  mother, 
the  austere  father,  with  his  open  books;  the  death  of  the 
mother,  who  lies  laid  out  for  burial  in  her  red  silk  dress ; 
the  epitaph  "  weep  for  an  infant  too  young  to  weep  much, 
when  Death  removed  this  mother;"  Aurora's  journey  to 
her  father's  old  home ;  her  lonely  terror  of  England ;  her 
slow  yielding  to  its  silent  beauty;  her  friendship  with  her 
cousin,  Romney  Leigh;  their  saddening,  widening  knowl- 
edge of  the  burden  and  sorrow  of  life,  and  the  way  this 
knowledge  influences  both  their  fates — all  is  described  with 
that  irresistible  fervor  which  is  the  translation  of  the  es- 
sence of  things  into  words. 

Mrs.  Browning  was  a  great  writer;  but  I  think  she  was 
even  more  a  wife  and  a  mother  than  a  writer,  and  any  ac- 
count of  her  would  be  incomplete  which  did  not  put  these 
facts  first  and  foremost  in  her  history. 

The  author  of  Aurora  Leigh  once  added  a  characteristic 
page  to  one  of  her  husband's  letters  to  Leigh  Hunt.  She  has 
been  telling  him  of  her  little  boy's  illness.  "You  are  aware 
that  of  that  child  I  am  more  proud  than  twenty  Auroras, 
even  after  Leigh  Hunt  has  praised  them.  When  he  was 
ill  he  said  to  me,  'You  pet,  don't  be  unhappy  about  me; 
think  it's  only  a  boy  in  the  street,  and  be  a  little  sorry,  but 
not  unhappy.'  Who  could  not  be  unhappy,  I  wonder?  .  .  . 
I  never  saw  your  book  called  The  Religion  of  the  Heart.  I 
receive  more  dogmas,  perhaps  (my  '  perhaps  '  being  in  the 
dark,  rather),  than  you  do." 

She  says  in  conclusion,  "  Churches  do  all  of  them,  as  at 
present  constituted,  seem  too  narrow  and  low  to  hold  true 
Christianity  in  its  proximate  development — I,  at  least,  can- 
not help  believing  them  so." 

165 


She  seemed,  even  in  her  life,  something  of  a  spirit,  as  her 
friend  has  said,  and  her  view  of  life's  sorrow  and  shame,  of 
its  beauty  and  eternal  hope,  is  not  unlike  that  which  one 
might  imagine  a  spirit's  to  be.  She  died  at  Florence  in 
1861.  It  is  impossible  to  read  without  emotion  the  account 
of  her  last  hours — given  in  Robert  Broivning's  Life — of  her 
tender,  nay,  playful  courage  and  sweetness,  of  his  passion 
of  grief. 

A  tablet  has  been  placed  on  Casa  Guidi,  voted  by  the 
municipality  of  Florence,  and  written  by  Tommaseo : 

"  Here  wrote  and  died  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  whose  woman's 
heart  combined  the  wisdom  of  a  wise  man  with  the  genius  of  a  poet,  and 
whose  poems  form  a  golden  ring  which  joins  Italy  to  England.  The 
town  of  Florence,  ever  grateful  to  her,  has  placed  this  epitaph  to  her 
memory." 

There  was  a  woman  living  in  Florence,  an  old  friend — 
clever,  warm-hearted  Miss  Isa  Blagden,  herself  a  writer — 
who  went  to  Mr.  Browning  and  his  little  boy  in  their  terrible 
desolation,  and  who  did  what  little  a  friend  could  do  to 
help  them.  Day  after  day,  and  for  two  or  three  nights,  she 
watched  by  the  stricken  pair  until  she  was  relieved ;  then  the 
father  and  the  little  son  came  back  to  England.  They  set- 
tled near  Miss  Barrett,  Mrs.  Browning's  sister,  who  was  liv- 
ing in  Delamere  Terrace,  and  upon  her  own  father's  death 
Miss  Browning  came  to  be  friend,  comforter,  home-maker, 
for  her  brother. 

I  can  remember  walking  with  my  father  under  the  trees 
of  Kensington  Gardens,  when  we  met  Mr.  Browning  just 
after  his  return  to  England.  He  was  coming  towards  us 
along  the  broad  walk  in  his  blackness  through  the  sunshine. 
We  were  then  living  in  Palace  Green,  close  by,  and  he  came 
to  see  us  very  soon  after.  But  he  was  in  a  jarred  and 
troubled  state,  and  not  himself  as  yet,  although  I  remember 

166 


his  speaking  of  the  house  he  had  just  taken  for  himself  and 
his  boy.  This  was  only  a  short  time  before  my  father's 
death.  In  1864  my  sister  and  I  left  our  home  and  went 
abroad,  nor  did  we  all  meet  again  for  a  long  time. 

It  was  a  mere  chance,  so  Mr.  Browning  once  said,  whether 
he  should  live  in  this  London  house  that  he  had  taken,  and 
join  in  social  life,  or  go  away  to  some  quiet  retreat,  and  be 
seen  no  more;  but  for  great  poets,  as  for  small  ones,  events 
shape  themselves  by  degrees,  and  after  the  first  hard  years 
of  his  return,  a  new  and  gentler  day  began  to  dawn  for  him. 
Miss  Browning  came  to  them,  new  interests  arose,  acquaint- 
ances ripened  to  friends  (this  blessed  human  fruit  takes 
time  to  mature),  his  work  and  his  influence  spread. 

He  published  some  of  his  finest  work  about  this  time. 
Dramatis  Persons,  a  great  part  of  which  had  been  written 
before,  came  out  in  1864;  then  followed  the  Ring  and  the 
Book,  published  by  his  good  friend,  and  ours,  Mr.  George 
Murray  Smith,  and  Balaustion,  that  exquisite  poem,  in  1871. 
Recognition,  popularity,  honorary  degrees,  all  the  tokens  of 
appreciation,  which  should  have  come  sooner,  now  began 
to  crowd  in  upon  "our  great  commoner,"  as  some  one 
called  Mr.  Browning  when  Lord  Tennyson  accepted  his 
peerage — Lord  Rectorships  and  Fellowships  and  dignities 
of  every  sort  came  in  due  course.  He  went  his  own  way 
through  it  all,  cordially  accepted  the  recognition,  but  chiefly 
avoided  the  dignities,  and  kept  his  two  lives  distinct.  He 
had  his  public  life  and  his  own  private  life,  with  its  natural 
interests  and  outcoming  friendships,  and  constant  alternate 
pulse  of  work  and  play. 

Browning  has  been  described  as  looking  something  like 
a  hale  naval  officer;  but  in  later  life,  when  his  hair  tuined 
snowy  white,  he  seemed  to  me  more  like  some  sage  of  by- 
gone ages.  There  was  a  statue  in  the  Capitol  of  Rome  to 

which  Mrs.  Sartoris  always  likened  him.     I  cannot  imagine 

,67 


that  any  draped  and  filleted  sage  could  ever  have  been  so 
delightful  a  companion,  so  racy,  so  unselfishly  interested  in 
the  events  of  the  hour  as  he.  "  He  was  not  only  ready  for 
talk,  but  fond  of  it,"  said  the  writer  of  an  admirable  article 
in  the  Standard*  "He  was  absolutely  unaffected  in  his 
choice  of  topics :  anything  but  the  cant  of  literary  circles 
pleased  him.  If  only  we  knew  a  tithe  of  what  he  knew, 
and  of  what,  unluckily,  he  gives  us  credit  for  knowing,  many 
a  hint  that  serves  only  to  obscure  the  sense  would  be  clear 
enough." 

Among  Browning's  many  gifts,  that  of  delightful  story- 
telling is  certainly  one  which  should  not  be  passed  over. 
His  memory  was  very  remarkable  for  certain  things ;  gen- 
eral facts,  odds  and  ends  of  rhyme  and  doggerel,  bits  of 
recondite  knowledge  came  back  to  him  spontaneously  and 
with  vivacity.  This  is  all  to  be  noticed  in  his  books,  which 
treat  of  so  many  quaint  facts  and  theories.  His  stories 
were  specially  delightful,  because  they  were  told  so  appo- 

*  To  quote  the  many  voices  as  they  speak  of  him  is  to  quote  the  voices  of  a  whole 
host  of  friends  and  followers  in  the  spirit  or  the  letter.  Guided  by  Mr  Furnival  I  have 
read  a  cycle  of  commentaries,  among  which  I  should  like  to  mention  two  articles  in  the 
Jewish  Quarterly  Review,  which  seem  to  me  specially  interesting.  "  Browning  is  a 
poet  for  the  old  as  well  as  for  the  young.  Some  poets  write  of  summer,  others  of 
spring.  Browning  belongs  even  more  to  wintry  times,  or  to  the  early  silent  months 
which  precede  the  spring.  The  branches  of  the  trees  may  be  dry  and  frozen,  but  in 
them  lies  the  sap  of  hope  and  life,  the  frost-bound  earth  contains  the  harvests  of  the 
year,  its  joys  and  fragrance  and  sweetness  to  be.  Who  more  than  Browning  has  ever 
made  us  realize  that  life  which  exists  alongside  with  death,  that  truth  and  law  which 
underlies  confusion.  '  I  press  God's  lamp  close  to  my  breast,  its  splendor  soon  or  late 
will  pierce  the  gloom.'  "  Sir  James  Fitz  James  Stephen,  in  his  "  Essay  on  Hooker," 
quotes  a  passage  which  might  almost  serve  for  a  motto  to  some  of  Browning's  finest 
work.  "  In  all  created  and  imperfect  beings  there  is  an  appetite  and  desire  whereby 
they  incline  to  something  which  they  may  be,  which  as  yet  they  are  not  in  act. 

"  '  So  in  man's  life  arise 
August  anticipations,  symbols,  types 
Of  a  dim  splendor  ever  on  before, 
In  that  eternal  circle  life  pursues."' — PARACELSUS. 

And  again,  "  That  which  doth  assign  to  each  thing  the  kind,  that  which  doth  moderate 
the  force  and  power,  that  which  doth  appoint  the  form  and  measure  of  working,  the 
same  we  term  a  law."  Again  hear  Paracelsus : 

"  But  thou  shall  painfully  attain  to  joy 
While  hope  and  fear  and  love  shall  keep  thee  man." 
1 68 


sitely,  and  were  so  simple  and  complete  in  themselves.  A 
doggerel  always  had  a  curious  fascination  for  him,  and  he 
preferred  to  quote  the  very  worst  poetry  in  his  talks.  On 
one  occasion  we  were  dining  at  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lehmann's 
house  in  Half -moon  Street;  it  was  a  cottage  of  delight 
rather  than  a  palace,  and  the  guests  were  somewhat  crowd- 
ed. Millais,  turning  round,  happened  to  brush  off  the  head 
of  a  flower  that  Browning  wore  in  his  button-hole.  Concern- 
ing the  said  flower,  the  poet  immediately  remembered  a  story 
of  a  city  clerk  who  had  considered  himself  inspired,  and  had 
some  of  his  verses  printed.  One  poem  began  something 
like  this  : 

"I  love  the  gentle  primrose 

That  grows  beside  the  rill ; 
I  love  the  water-lily, 
Narcissus,  and  jonquil." 

This  last  word  was  by  mistake  printed  "John  Quill,"  which 
seemed  so  appropriate  a  name,  and  the  clerk  got  so  much 
chaffed  about  it,  that  his  poetical  inspirations  were  nipped 
in  the  bud,  and  he  printed  no  more  poems. 

Another  reminiscence  which  my  friend  Mrs.  C —  -  also 
recalls  is  in  a  sadder  strain.  It  was  a  description  of  some- 
thing Mr.  Browning  once  saw  in  Italy.  It  happened  at 
Arezzo,  where  he  had  turned  by  chance  into  an  old  church 
among  the  many  old  churches  there,  that  he  saw  a  crowd  of 
people  at  the  end  of  an  aisle,  and  found  they  were  looking 
at  the  skeleton  of  a  man  just  discovered  by  some  workmen 
who  were  breaking  away  a  portion  of  the  wall  opposite  the 
high  altar.  The  flesh  was  like  brown  leather,  but  the  feat- 
ures were  distinguishable.  Mr.  Browning  made  inquiries 
as  to  who  it  was.  He  could  hear  of  no  tradition  even  of  a 
man  being  walled  up.  The  priests  thought  it  must  have 
been  done  three  or  four  hundred  years  ago.  A  hole  had 

169 


been  left  above  his  head  to  enable  him  to  breathe.  Mr. 
Browning  said  the  dead  man  was  standing  with  his  hands 
crossed  upon  his  breast ;  on  the  face  was  a  look  of  expecta- 
tion, an  expression  of  hoping  against  hope.  The  man 
looked  up,  knowing  help  could  only  come  from  above,  and 

must   have  died   still   hoping.     Mrs.    C said   to   Mr. 

Browning  she  wondered  he  had  not  written  a  poem  about 
it.  He  replied  he  had  done  so,  and  had  given  it  away. 

I  often  find  myself  going  back  to  Darwin's  saying  about 
the  duration  of  a  man's  friendships  being  one  of  the  best 
measures  of  his  worth,  and  Browning's  friendships  are  very 
characteristic  and  convincing.  He  specially  loved  Landor, 
to  whom  he  and  his  wife  were  Good  Samaritans  indeed. 
For  the  Tennysons  his  was  also  a  real  and  warm  affection. 
Was  there  ever  a  happier,  truer  dedication  than  that  of  his 
collected  selections  ? — 

"TO  ALFRED  TENNYSON: 

"  In  poetry  illustrious  and  consummate.  In  friendship  noble  and 
sincere !" 

How  enduring  was  his  friendship  for  Mr.  Procter,  and  how 
often  has  his  faithful  coming  cheered  the  dear  and  kind 
old  man  !  Of  his  feeling  for  Mr.  Milsand  I  have  already 
spoken.  Among  the  women  who  were  Mr.  Browning's  real 
and  confidential  friends  there  is  the  same  feeling  of  trust 
and  dependence.  '70 


VIII 

BESIDES  actual  personal  feelings,  there  are  also  the  Affini- 
ties of  a  life  to  be  taken  into  account.  The  following  pas- 
sages, which  I  owe  to  Professor  Knight's  kindness,  are  very 
remarkable,  for  they  show  what  Browning's  estimation  was 
of  Wordsworth,  and  although  they  were  not  written  till  much 
later,  I  give  them  here.  Indeed,  the  point  of  meeting  of 
these  two  beneficent  poet  streams  is  one  full  of  interest  to 
those  upon  the  shore.  The  first  paragraph  of  the  first  letter 
relates  to  some  new  honors  and  dignities  gratefully  and 
firmly  declined  : 

"March  2ist,  '83. 

"  I  do  feel  increasingly  (cowardly  as  seems  the  avowal)  the  need  of 
keeping  the  quiet  corner  in  the  world's  van  which  I  have  got  used  to  for 
so  many  years. 

"  I  will,  as  you  desire,  attempt  to  pick  out  the  twenty  poems  which 
strike  me  (and  so  as  to  take  away  my  breath)  as  those  worthiest  of  the 
master  Wordsworth. 

"Speaking  of  a  classification  of  Wordsworth's  poems,  in  my  heart 
I  fear  I  should  do  it  almost  chronologically,  so  immeasurably  superior 
seem  to  me  the  first  sprightly  runnings  ;  your  selection  would  appear 
to  be  excellent,  and  the  partial  admittance  of  the  latter  work  prevents 
one  from  observing  the  too  definitely  distinguishing  black  line  between 
supremely  good  and — well !  what  is  fairly  tolerable  from  Wordsworth 
always  understand." 

At  the  end  of  the  letters  addressed  to  Professor  Knight 
there  is  this  touching  postscript : 


"I  open  the  envelope  to  say — what  I  had  nearly  omitted — that  Ld. 
Coleridge  proposed,  and  my  humble  self — at  his  desire — seconded  you, 
last  evening,  for  admission  to  the  Athenaeum.  I  had  the  less  scruple 
in  offering  my  services  that  you  will  most  likely  never  see  in  the  offer 
anything  but  a  record  of  my  respect  and  regard,  since  your  election 
will  come  on  when  I  shall  be — dare  I  hope  ? — '  elect '  in  even  a  higher 
society !" 

Here  is  another  letter  also  relating  to  Wordsworth  : 

"  19  WARWICK  CRESCENT,  W., 
February  24,  '86. 

"  MY  DEAR  PROFESSOR, — I  have  kept  you  waiting  this  long  while — 
and  for  how  shabby  a  result !  You  must  listen  indulgently  while  I  at- 
tempt to  explain  why  I  am  forced  to  disappoint  you.  One  remembers 
few  more  commonplace  admonitions  to  a  poet  than  that  '  he  would 
wiselier  have  written  but  a  quarter  of  the  works  which  he  has  labored 
at  for  a  lifetime,'  unless  it  be  this  other,  often  coupled  with  it,  '  that 
such  works  ought  to  be  addressed  to  the  general  apprehension,  not  ex- 
clusively suited  to  the  requirements  of  a  (probably  quite  imaginary)  few.' 
Each  precept  contradicts  the  other.  Write,  on  set  purpose,  for  the  many, 
and  you  will  soon  enough  be  reminded  of  the  old  '  Tot  homines  ;'  and 
write  as  conscientiously  for  the  few — your  idealized  '  Double '  (it  comes 
to  that) — and  you  may  soon  suit  him  with  the  extremely  little  that  suits 
yourself.  Now  in  view  of  which  of  these  objects  should  the  maker  of  a 
selection  of  the  works  of  any  poet  worth  the  pains  begin  his  employment  ? 

•'  I  have  myself  attempted  the  business,  and  know  something  of  the 
achievements  in  this  kind  of  my  betters.  They  furnish  a  list  of  the 
pieces  which  the  selector  has  found  most  delight  in.  And  I  have  found 
also,  that  others,  playing  the  selector  with  apparently  as  good  a  right 
and  reason,  were  dissatisfied  with  this  unaccountable  addition,  and  that 
as  inexplicable  omission  ;  in  short,  that  the  sole  selector  was  not  himself. 
The  only  case  in  which  no  such  stumbling-block  occurs  being  that  obvi- 
ous one — if  it  has  ever  occurred — when  a  public,  wholly  unacquainted 
with  an  author,  is  presumed  to  be  accessible  to  a  specimen  of  his  alto- 
gether untried  productions — for,  by  chance,  the  sample  of  the  poetry  of 
Brown  and  Jones  may  pierce  the  ignorance  of  somebody — say  of  Rob- 
inson. It  is  quite  another  matter  of  interest  to  know  what  Matthew 
Arnold  thinks  most  worthy  in  Wordsworth.  But  should  anybody  have 

172 


curiosity  to  inquire  which  '  fifteen  or  twenty'  of  his  poems  have  most 
thoroughly  impressed  such  a  one  as  myself,  all  I  can  affirm  is  that  I 
treasure  as  precious  every  poem  written  during  about  the  first  twenty 
years  of  the  poet's  life  ;  after  these,  the  solution  grows  weaker,  the  crys- 
tals gleam  more  rarely,  and  the  assiduous  stirring  up  of  the  mixture  is 
too  apparent  and  obtrusive.  To  the  end  crystals  are  to  be  come  at  ; 
but  my  own  experience  resembles  that  of  the  old  man  in  the  admirable 
'  Resolution  and  Independence  :' 

"  '  Once  I  could  meet  with  them  on  every  side, 
But  they  have  dwindled  long  by  slow  decay, 
Yet  still  I  persevere,  and  find  them  where  I  may ' 

— that  is,  in  the  poet's  whole  work,  which  I  should  leave  to  operate  in 
the  world  as  it  may,  each  recipient  his  own  selector. 

"  I  only  find  room  to  say  that  I  was  delighted  to  make  acquaintance 
with  your  daughter,  and  that  should  she  feel  any  desire  to  make  that  of 
my  sister,  we  shall  welcome  her  gladly. 

"  Believe  me,  my  dear  Professor, 

"Yours  most  truly, 

"  ROBERT  BROWNING." 


IX 


WE  were  all  living  in  "sea-coast-nook-full "  Normandy 
one  year,  scattered  into  various  chateaus  and  shops  and  tene- 
ments. Some  of  our  party  were  installed  in  a  clematis- 
wreathed  mansion  near  the  church-tower;  others  were  at 
the  milk -woman's  on  the  road  to  the  sea.  Most  of  the 
lively  population  of  the  little  watering-place  was  stowed 
away  in  chalets  of  which  the  fronts  seemed  wide  open  to  the 
road  from  morning  to  night;  numbers  of  people  content- 
edly spent  whole  days  in  tents  on  the  sea-shore.  It  was  a 
fine  hot  summer,  with  sweetness  and  completeness  every- 
where;  the  cornfields  gilt  and  far -stretching,  the  waters 
blue,  the  skies  arching  high  and  clear,  and  the  sunsets  sue 


ceeding  each  other,  in  most  glorious  light  and  beauty.  Mr. 
Milsand  had  a  little  country  lodge  at  St.  Aubin,  near  Luc- 
sur-Mer,  and  I  wrote  to  him  from  the  shady  court-yard  of 
our  chateau,  and  begged  him  to  come  over  and  see  us  ;  and 
when  he  came  he  told  us  Mr.  and  Miss  Browning  were 
also  living  close  by.  We  were  walking  along  the  dusty  road 
and  passing  the  old  square  tower  when  he  suddenly  stood 
still,  and,  fixing  his  earnest  look  upon  me,  said  : 

"  Tell  me,  why  is  there  some  reserve ;  is  anything  wrong 
between  you  and  Robert  Browning  ?  I  see  you  are  re- 
served ;  I  see  he  is  also  constrained ;  what  is  it  ?" 

To  which  I  replied,  honestly  enough,  that  I  did  not  know 
what  it  was;  there  was  some  constraint  between  me  and 
my  old  friend.  I  imagined  that  some  one  had  made  mis- 
chief ;  I  could  see  plainly  enough  when  we  met  that  he  was 
changed  and  vexed  and  hurt,  but  I  could  not  tell  why,  and 
it  certainly  made  me  very  unhappy.  "  But  this  must  not  be," 
said  Milsand;  "this  must  be  cleared."  I  said  it  was  hope- 
less ;  it  had  lasted  for  months,  and  in  those  days  I  was  still 
young  enough  to  imagine  that  a  mood  was  eternal;  that 
coldness  could  never  change.  Now  I  find  it  almost  impos- 
sible to  give  that  consideration  to  a  quarrel  which  is  inva- 
riably claimed  under  such  circumstances. 

I  happened  to  be  alone  next  day ;  the  cousins  and  the 
children  who  were  with  me  had  gone  down  to  the  sea.  I 

was  keeping  house  in  the  blazing  heat  with  F (the 

family  despot,  the  late  nurse  and  present  house-keeper  of 
the  party).  The  shutters  were  closed  against  the  blinding 
light ;  I  was  writing  in  my  bedroom,  with  a  pleasant  sense 
of  temporary  solitude  and  silence,  when  I  chanced  to  go 
to  the  window,  and  looked  into  the  old  walled  court.  I  saw 
the  great  gates  open  a  little  way,  and  a  man's  broad-shoul- 
dered figure  coming  through  them,  and  then  advance,  strid- 
ing across  the  stones,  towards  the  house.  It  was  Mr. 

"74 


Browning,  dressed  all  in  white,  with  a  big  white  umbrella 
under  his  arm.  It  was  the  poet  himself,  and  over  and 
beyond  this,  it  was  my  kind,  old  friend  returned,  all  reserve 
and  coldness  gone,  never  to  trouble  or  perplex  again.  We 
had  no  explanations. 

"Don't  ask,"  he  said;  "the  facts  are  not  worth  remem- 
bering or  inquiring  into ;  people  make  mischief  without 
even  meaning  it.  It  is  all  over  now.  I  have  come  to  ask 
when  you  will  come  to  St.  Aubin  ;  my  sister  is  away  for  a 
few  days,  but  the  Milsands  are  counting  on  you." 

We  started  almost  the  next  day  in  a  rattle-trap  chaise, 
with  an  escort  of  donkeys  ridden  by  nephews  and  nieces, 
along  the  glaring  sandy  road  to  Luc.  The  plains  were 
burning  hot  and  the  sea  seemed  on  fire,  but  the  children 
and  donkeys  kept  up  valiantly.  At  last  we  reached  a  little 
village  on  the  outer  edges  of  Luc-sur-Mer,  and  in  the  street 
stood  Monsieur  Milsand,  in  front  of  a  tiny  house.  How 
kind  was  his  greeting !  How  cordial  was  that  of  his  wife 
and  daughter,  coming  to  the  door  to  make  us  welcome ! 
Mr.  Browning  was  also  waiting  in  the  diminutive  sitting- 
room,  where  I  remember  a  glimpse  of  big  books  and  com- 
fortable seats  and  tables.  The  feast  itself  was  spread  out- 
of-doors  on  the  terrace  at  the  back,  with  a  shady  view  of 
the  sea  between  lilac-bushes ;  the  low  table  was  laid  with 
dainties,  glasses,  and  quaint  decanters.  Mr.  Milsand  was 
the  owner  of  vineyards  in  the  South,  and  abstemious  though 
he  was  himself,  he  gave  his  triends  the  best  of  good  wine, 
as  well  as  of  words  and  welcome.  From  this  by-gone  and 
happy  feast  two  dishes  are  still  present  to  my  mind:  a  cer- 
tain capon  and  a  huge  fish,  lying  in  a  country  platter,  curled 
on  a  bed  of  fennel,  surrounded  by  a  wreath  of  marigolds, 
and  in  its  mouth  a  bunch  of  flowers.  The  host  helped  us 
each  in  turn  ;  the  Normandy  maid  appeared  and  disappeared 
with  her  gleaming  gold  ear-rings ;  then  carne  a  pause,  dur- 

'75 


ing  which  Madame  Milsand  rose  quietly,  and  went  into  the 
house.  The  gentlemen  were  talking  pleasantly,  and  the 
ladies  listening  agreeably  (there  are  many  local  politics  to 
be  discussed  on  the  Normandy  coast).  But  somehow,  after 
a  time,  the  voices  ceased,  and  in  the  silence  we  heard  the 
strains  of  distant  martial  music.  Mr.  Milsand  looked  in- 
quiringly at  his  daughter. 

"  It  is  the  regiment  marching  by,"  said  Mile.  Milsand. 

"But  where  is  my  wife?"  said  Monsieur  Milsand.  "She 
cannot  have  gone  to  the  review." 

Still  the  music  sounded ;  still  we  waited.  Then  to  us  re- 
turned our  handsome,  dignified  hostess.  "  She  had  not  been 
to  the  review,"  she  said,  laughing  and  apologizing;  "but, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she  added,  "you  must  please  con- 
tent yourselves  with  your  fricandeau,  for,  alas !  there  is  no 
news  of  my  larded  capon.  It  went  to  the  pastry-cook's  to 
be  roasted ;  I  have  just  sent  the  maid  to  inquire ;  it  was 
despatched,  ready  for  the  table,  half  an  hour  ago,  on  a  tray 
carried  by  the  pastry-cook's  boy.  It  is  feared  that  it  is 
running  after  the  soldiers.  I  am  in  despair  at  your  meagre 
luncheon." 

But  I  need  not  say  we  were  in  a  land  flowing  with  milk 
and  honey.  As  we  feasted  on,  as  the  last  biscuit  was  crum- 
bled, the  last  fragrant  cup  of  coffee  handed  round,  once 
more  came  the  Normandy  ear-rings. 

"  Shall  I  serve  the  capon,  madame  ?  Pierre  has  just  re- 
turned from  the  review." 

But  we  all  cried  out  that  we  must  come  back  another  day 
to  eat  the  capon.  The  sun  was  getting  low.  If  we  carried 
out  our  intention  of  walking  to  St.  Aubin  and  seeing  Mr. 
Browning's  cottage,  we  must  start  forthwith. 

The  path  ran  along  the  high  cliff.  Mr.  Browning  went 
before  us,  leading  the  way  to  "mine  own  hired  house." 
Once  more  the  whole  scene  comes  before  me :  the  sea- 

1/6 


coast  far  below  our  feet,  the  arid  vegetation  of  the  sandy 
way,  the  rank,  yellow  snap-dragons  lining  the  paths.  There 
was  not  much  other  color ;  the  tones  were  delicate,  half 
airy,  half  solid ;  the  sea  was  in  a  vast  circle  around  us ; 
the  waves  were  flowing  into  the  scooped  sandy  bay  of  Luc- 
sur-Mer ;  the  rocks  of  the  Calvados  were  hidden  behind  the 
jutting  promontories ;  here  and  there  a  rare  poppy,  like  a 
godsend,  shone  up  by  chance.  It  took  us  half  an  hour's 
quick  walk  to  reach  the  two  little  straight  sentry-boxes 
standing  on  the  cliffs  against  the  sky,  to  which  Mr.  Brown- 
ing pointed.  He  himself  has  described  this  habitation  in 
"  Red  Cotton  Nightcap  Country  :" 

"  That  just  behind  you  is  mine  own  hired  house, 
With  right  of  pathway  through  the  field  in  front. 
No  prejudice  to  all  its  growth  unsheath'd 
Of  emerald  Luzern  bursting  into  blue.  .  .  . 
Be  sure  I  keep  the  path  that  hugs  the  wall 
Of  mornings,  as  I  pad  from  door  to  gate  ! 
Yon  yellow — what  if  not  wild-mustard  flower? 
Of  that  my  naked  sole  makes  lawful  prize, 
Bruising  the  acrid  aromatics  out  .  .  . 
And  lo,  the  wave  protrudes  a  lip  at  last, 
And  flecks  my  foot  with  froth,  nor  tempts  in  vain.'' 

We  entered  the  Brownings'  house.  The  sitting  -  room 
door  opened  to  the  garden  and  the  sea  beyond — a  fresh- 
swept  bare  floor,  a  table,  three  straw  chairs,  one  book  upon 
the  table.  Mr.  Browning  told  us  it  was  the  only  book  he 
had  with  him.  The  bedrooms  were  as  bare  as  the  sitting- 
room,  but  I  remember  a  little  dumb  piano  standing  in  a 
corner,  on  which  he  used  to  practise  in  the  early  morning. 
I  heard  Mr.  Browning  declaring  they  were  perfectly  satisfied 
with  their  little  house.  That  his  brains,  squeezed  as  dry  as 
a  sponge,  were  only  ready  for  fresh  air. 

But  has  not  Browning  himself  best  summed  up  the  con- 


trast  between  the  meek,  hitherto  un-Murrayed  bathing-place 
and  London,  where 

"My  toe  trespassed  upon  your  flounce, 

Small  blame  unto  you,  seeing  the  staircase  party  in  the  square 
Was  small  and  early,  and  you  broke  no  rib." 


X 


THIS  visit  to  St.  Aubin  was  followed  by  the  publication 
of  "  Red  Cotton  Nightcap  Country,"  from  which  I  have  been 
quoting,  and  on  this  occasion  I  must  break  my  rule,  and 
trench  upon  the  ground  traversed  by  Mrs.  Orr.  I  cannot 
give  myself  greater  pleasure  than  by  inserting  the  following 
passage  from  the  Life: 

"  The  August  of  1872  and  of  1873  again  found  him  and  his  sister  at 
St.  Aubin,  and  the  earlier  visit  was  an  important  one,  since  it  supplied 
him  with  the  materials  of  his  next  work,  of  which  Miss  Annie  Thack- 
eray, there  also  for  a  few  days,  suggested  the  title.  The  tragic  drama 
which  forms  the  subject  of  Mr.  Browning's  poem  had  been  in  great  part 
nacted  in  the  vicinity  of  St.  Aubin,  and  the  case  of  disputed  inheritance 
to  which  it  had  given  rise  was  pending  at  that  moment  in  the  tribunals 
of  Caen.  The  prevailing  impression  left  on  Miss  Thackeray's  mind  by 
this  primitive  district  was,  she  declared,  that  of  white  cotton  nightcaps 
(the  habitual  head-gear  of  the  Normandy  peasants).  She  engaged  to 
write  a  story  called  'White  Cotton  Nightcap  Country,'  and  Mr.  Brown- 
ing's quick  sense  of  both  contrast  and  analogy  inspired  the  introduction 
of  this  element  of  repose  into  his  own  picture  of  that  peaceful,  prosaic 
existence,  and  of  the  ghostly,  spiritual  conflict  to  which  it  had  served  as 
background." 

And  perhaps  the  writer  may  be  excused  for  adding  a 
letter  which  concerns  the  dedication  of  "  Red  Cotton  Night- 

178 


cap   Country" — a  very  unexpected   and  delightful   conse- 
quence of  our  friendly  meeting  : 

"May  9,  1873. 

"  DEAR  Miss  THACKERAY, — Indeed  the  only  sort  of  pain  that  any 
sort  of  criticism  could  give  me  would  be  by  the  reflection  of  any  particle 
of  pain  it  managed  to  give  you.  I  dare  say  that,  by  long  use,  I  don't 
feel  or  attempt  to  feel  criticisms  of  this  kind,  as  most  people  might. 
Remember  that  everybody  this  thirty  years  has  given  me  his  kick  and 
gone  his  way,  just  as  I  am  told  the  understood  duty  of  all  highway  trav- 
ellers in  Spain  is  to  bestow  at  least  one  friendly  thump  for  the  Mayoral's 
sake  on  his  horses  as  they  toil  along  up-hill,  'so  utterly  a  puzzle,'  '  or- 
gan-grinding,' and  so  forth,  come  and  go  again  without  much  notice  ;  but 
any  poke  at  me  which  would  touch  you,  would  vex  me  indeed ;  there- 
fore pray  don't  let  my  critics  into  that  secret !  Indeed,  /  thought  the 
article  highly  complimentary,  which  comes  of  being  in  the  category  cel- 
ebrated by  Butler : 

" '  Some  have  been  kicked  till  they  know  [not]  whether 
The  shoe  be  Spanish  or  neat's  leather.' 

"You  see  the  little  patch  of  velvet  in  the  toe-piece  of  this  slipper 
seemed  to  tickle  by  comparison.  Ever  yours  affectionately, 

"ROBERT  BROWNING." 

But,  whatever  the  past  may  have  contained,  Mr.  Browning 
had  little  to  complain  of  in  his  future  critics.  This  is  not 
an  un appreciative  age ;  the  only  fault  to  be  found  with  it  is 
that  there  are  too  many  mouths  using  the  same  words  over 
and  over  again,  until  the  expressions  seem  to  lose  their 
senses  and  fly  about  almost  giddily  and  at  hap-hazard.  The 
extraordinary  publicity  in  which  our  bodies  live  seems  to 
frighten  away  our  souls  at  times ;  we  are  apt  to  stick  to 
generalities,  or  to  well -hackneyed  adjectives  which  have 
ceased  to  have  much  meaning  or  responsibility;  or  if  we 
try  to  describe  our  own  feelings,  it  is  in  terms  which  some- 
times grow  more  and  more  emphatic  as  they  are  less  and 
less  to  the  point  When  we  come  to  say  what  is  our  simple 


and  genuine  conviction,  the  effort  is  almost  beyond  us.  We 
remember  so  many  clever  confusing  things  that  other  people 
have  said.  The  truth  is  too  like  Cordelia's.  To  say  that  you 
have  loved  a  man  or  a  woman,  that  you  admire  them  and 
delight  in  their  work,  does  not  any  longer  mean  to  you  or 
to  others  what  it  means  in  fact.  It  seems  almost  a  test  of 
Mr.  Browning's  true  greatness  that  the  love  and  the  trust  in 
his  genius  have  survived  the  things  which  have  been  said 
about  it. 


XI 


NOT  the  least  interesting  part  of  the  Milsand  correspond- 
ence relates  to  the  MSS.  which  the  cultivated  Frenchman 
now  regularly  revised  for  his  English  friend  before  they 
were  sent  to  the  printer.  Here  is  a  letter  to  Mr.  Milsand, 
dated  May,  1872:  "Whenever  you  get  the  whole  series," 
Browning  says,  "  you  will  see  what  I  fail  to  make  you  un- 
derstand, how  inestimable  your  assistance  has  been ;  there  is 
not  one  point  to  which  you  called  attention  which  I  was  not 
thereby  enabled  to  improve,  in  some  cases  essentially  ben- 
efit ;  the  punctuation  was  nearly  as  useful  as  the  other  ap- 
parently more  important  assistance.  The  fact  is  that  in  the 
case  of  a  writer  with  my  peculiarities  and  habits,  somebody 
quite  ignorant  of  what  I  may  have  meant  to  write,  and  only 
occupied  with  what  is  really  written,  is  needed  to  supervise 
the  thing  produced,  and  I  never  hoped  or  dreamed  that  I 
should  find  such  intelligence  as  yours  at  my  service.'  I 
won't  attempt  to  thank  you,  dearest  friend,  but  simply  in 
my  own  interest  do  not  you  undervalue  your  service  to  me, 
because  in  logical  consequence  the  next  step  ought  to  be 
that  you  abate  it  or  withdraw  it."  In  another  letter,  dated 

182 


FAC-SIMILE   OF   MRS.    BROWNING'S    HANDWRITING 


. 


S~fa 


p        /  *(l 

(.^^ff    GL/*&      /^-       ^-       f^ff  *••'"••••     <•>-  * 

j    7    /  ^  -     / 


3 

^          --      -      £ 


^ 
S<Z> 


1875*  Mr.  Browning  writes  again  about  punctuation.  "  Your 
way  of  punctuation  (French  way)  is  different  from  ours — I 
don't  know  why;  we  use-:-where  you  prefer-;- but  I  have 
Frenchified  myself  in  this  respect  for  your  sake."  "  I  know 
how  I  trouble  all  but  your  goodness,"  he  repeats  to  his 
friend.  Is  it  not  a  pleasure  to  think  of  the  records  in  the 
old  carved  house  at  Dijon ;  of  the  good  service  rendered, 
and  so  generously  acknowledged  ? 

Here  is  one  more  extract  from  the  Dijon  correspondence, 
dated  April  7,  1878  :  "  I  am  glad  you  like  the  poems.  The 
measures  were  hitherto  unused  by  me.  That  of  the  first 
poems  is 


and  the  caesura  falls  just  as  you  say,  and  should,  as  a  rule, 
be  strictly  observed,  but  to  prevent^  monotony,  I  occasion- 
ally break  it."  This  letter  concludes  by  an  allusion  to  a 
French  friend  who  is  learning  English,  and  speaking  of  the 
difficulties  of  a  foreign  tongue,  Mr.  Browning  says:  "The 
thoughts  outstrip  and  leave  behind  the  words ;  in  the  slow- 
er process  of  writing,  the  thought  is  compelled  to  wait,  and 
get  itself  suited  in  a  phrase."  "  Now  for  yourself,"  he  con- 
cludes, "  I  enjoy  altogether  your  enjoyment  of  Bebe',  and 
wish  that  grand'mere  may  be  tyrannized  over  more  and 
more  Turkishly.  It  is  the  good  time.  Give  my  true  love 
to  whoever  will  take  it  of  your  joyous  party.  Sarianna 
writes  often,  I  know.  We  hail  the  announcement  of  your 
speedy  arrival  as  ever." 

The  house  by  the  water-side,  in  Warwick  Crescent,  which 
Browning  hastily  took,  and  in  which  he  lived  for  so  many 
years  after  his  return  to  England,  was  a  very  charming  cor- 
ner, I  used  to  think.  It  was  London,  but  London  touched 
by  some  indefinite  romance ;  the  canal  used  to  look  cool 

185 


and  deep,  the  green  trees  used  to  shade  the  crescent;  it 
seemed  a  peaceful  oasis  after  crossing  that  dreary  ^Eolia  of 
Paddington,  with  its  many  despairing  shrieks  and  whirling 
eddies.  The  house  was  an  ordinary  London  house,  but  the 
carved  oak  furniture  and  tapestries  gave  dignity  to  the  long 
drawing-rooms,  and  pictures  and  books  lined  the  stairs. 
In  the  garden  at  the  back  dwelt,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am 
writing,  two  weird  gray  geese,  with  quivering  silver  wings 
and  long  throats,  who  used  to  come  to  meet  their  master 
hissing  and  fluttering.  When  I  said  I  liked  the  place,  he 
told  us  of  some  visitor  from  abroad,  who  had  lately  come  to 
see  him,  who  also  liked  Warwick  Crescent,  and  who,  look- 
ing up  and  down  the  long  row  of  houses  and  porticos  in 
front  of  the  canal,  said,  "  Why,  this  is  a  mansion,  sir ;  do 
you  inhabit  the  whole  of  this  great  building,  and  do  you  al- 
low the  public  to  sail  upon  the  water  ?" 

As  we  sat  at  luncheon  I  looked  up  and  down  the  room, 
with  its  comfortable  lining  of  books,  and  also  I  could  not 
help  noticing  the  chimney- board  heaped  with  invitations. 
I  never  saw  so  many  cards  in  my  life  before.  Lothair  him- 
self might  have  wondered  at  them. 

Mr.  Browning  talked  on,  not  of  the  present  London,  but 
of  Italy  and  vilkggiatura,  with  his  friends,  the  Storys ;  of 
Siena  days  and  of  Walter  Savage  Landor.  He  told  us  the 
piteous  story  of  the  old  man  wandering  forlorn  down  the 
street  in  the  sunshine  without  a  hole  to  hide  his  head. 
He  kindled  at  the  remembrance  of  the  old  poet,  of  whom 
he  said  his  was  the  most  remarkable  personality  he  had 
ever  known ;  and  then,  getting  up  abruptly  from  the  table, 
he  reached  down  some  of  Landor's  many  books  from  the 
shelves  near  the  fireplace,  declaring  he  knew  no  finer  reading. 

He  read  us  some  extracts  from  the  "  Conversations  with 
the  Dead,"  quickly  turning  over  the  leaves,  seeking  for  his 
favorite  passages. 

186 


There  is  a  little  anecdote  which  I  think  he  also  told  us  on 
this  occasion.  It  concerned  a  ring  which  he  used  to  wear, 
and  which  had  belonged  to  his  wife.  One  day  in  the 
Strand  he  discovered  that  the  intaglio  from  the  setting  was 
missing.  People  were  crowding  in  and  out,  there  seemed 
no  chance  of  recovering ;  but  all  the  same  he  retraced  his 
steps,  and  lo !  in  the  centre  of  the  crossing,  there  lay  the 
jewel  on  a  stone,  shining  in  the  sun.  He  had  lost  the  ring 
on  a  previous  occasion  in  Florence  and  found  it  there  by 
another  happy  chance. 


XII 


IT  was  not  until  1887  that  Mr.  Browning  moved  to  De 
Vere  Gardens,  where  I  saw  him  almost  for  the  last  time. 
I  remember  calling  there  at  an  early  hour  with  my  children. 
The  servant  hesitated  about  letting  us  in.  Kind  Miss 
Browning  came  out  to  speak  to  us,  and  would  not  hear  of 
us  going  away. 

"  Wait  a  few  minutes.  I  know  he  will  see  you,"  she  said. 
'*  Come  in.  Not  into  the  dining-room ;  there  are  some  ladies 
waiting  there ;  and  there  are  some  members  of  the  Brown- 
ing Society  in  the  drawing-room.  Robert  is  in  the  study, 
with  some  Americans  who  have  come  by  appointment. 
Here  is  my  sitting-room,"  she  said;  "he  will  come  to  you 
directly." 

We  had  not  waited  five  minutes,  when  the  door  opened 
wide,  and  Mr.  Browning  came  in.  Alas !  it  was  no  longer 
the  stalwart  visitor  from  St.  Aubin.  He  seemed  tired,  hur- 
ried, though  not  less  outcoming  and  cordial,  in  his  silver  age. 

"  Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  he  said,  dropping  into  a 
chair,  and  holding  out  both  his  hands. 

,87 


I  told  him  it  was  a  family  festival,  and  that  I  had  "brought 
the  children  to  ask  for  his  blessing." 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  he  said,  laughing,  with  a  kind  look,  not 
without  some  relief.  He  also  hospitably  detained  us,  and 
when  his  American  visitors  were  gone,  took  us  in  turn  up 
into  his  study,  where  the  carved  writing-tables  were  covered 
with  letters — a  milky  way  of  letters,  it  seemed  to  me,  flow- 
ing in  from  every  direction. 

"  What !  all  this  to  answer  ?"  I  exclaimed. 

"  You  can  have  no  conception  what  it  is,"  he  replied.  "  I 
am  quite  worn  out  with  writing  letters  by  the  time  I  begin 
my  day's  work." 

But  his  day's  work  was  ending  here.  In  the  autumn  of 
the  year  1889  he  went  to  Italy,  and  from  Asolo  wrote  a 
happy  and  delightful  letter  to  his  brother-in-law,  Mr.  George 
Barrett,'  describing  the  "ancient  city  older  than  Rome," 
the  immense  indescribable  charm  of  the  surrounding  coun- 
try— the  Alps  on  one  side,  the  Asolan  Mountains  all  round, 
and  opposite  the  vast  Lombard  Plains.  ..."  We  think  of 
leaving  in  a  week  or  two,"  so  he  says,  for  Venice — guests 
of  Pen  and  his  wife.  He  writes  of  his  children,  and  of  his 
and  his  sister's  happiness  in  their  beautiful  home,  and  also 
of  the  new  edition  of  the  works  of  "  E.  B.  B."  He  seemed 
well  when  he  first  reached  Venice,  but  it  was  winter  even 
in  Venice,  Mrs.  Orr  says,  and  taking  his  usual  walk  on  the 
Lido  he  caught  cold.  Attacks  of  faintness  set  in,  and  two 
hours  before  midnight  on  Thursday,  December  izth,  he 
breathed  his  last,  closing  his  eyes  in  his  son's  beautiful  home 
at  Venice  among  those  he  loved  best.  His  son,  his  sister, 
his  daughter-in-law,  were  round  about  his  bed  tending  and 
watching  to  the  last.  When  all  was  over,  they  brought  him 
home  to  England  to  rest. 

When  Spenser  died  in  the  street  in  Westminster,  in  which 


he  dwelt  after  his  home  in  Ireland  was  burned  and  his  child 
was  killed  by  the  rebels,  it  is  said,  that  after  lingering  in  this 
world  in  poverty  and  neglect,  he  was  carried  to  the  grave  in 
state,  and  that  his  sorrowing  brother-poets  came  and  stood 
round  about  his  grave,  and  each  in  turn  flung  in  an  ode  to 
his  memory,  together  with  the  pen  with  which  it  had  been 
written.  The  present  Dean  of  Westminster,  quoting  this 
story,  added  that  probably  Shakespeare  had  stood  by  the 
grave  with  the  rest  of  them,  and  that  Shakespeare's  own 
pen  might  still  be  lying  in  dust  in  the  vaults  of  the  old  ab- 
bey. There  is  something  in  the  story  very  striking  to  the 
imagination.  One  pictures  to  one's  self  the  gathering  of 
those  noble  dignified  men  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  whose 
thoughts  were  at  once  so  strong  and  so  gentle,  so  fierce  and 
so  tender,  whose  dress  was  so  elaborate  and  stately.  Per- 
haps in  years  to  come  people  may  imagine  to  themselves 
the  men  who  stood  only  the  other  day  round  Robert  Brown- 
ing's grave,  the  friends  who  loved  him,  the  writers  who  have 
written  their  last  tribute  to  this  great  and  generous  poet. 
There  are  still  some  eagles'  quills  among  us ;  there  are 
others  of  us  who  have  not  eagles'  quills  to  dedicate  to  his 
memory,  only  nibs  with  which  to  pen  a  feeling,  happily 
stronger  and  more  various  than  the  words  and  scratches 
which  try  to  speak  of  it :  a  feeling  common  to  all  who  knew 
him,  and  who  loved  the  man  of  rock  and  sunshine,  and  who 
were  proud  of  his  great  gift  of  spirit  and  of  his  noble  human 
nature. 

It  often  happens  when  a  man  dies  in  the  fulness  of  years, 
that  as  you  look  across  his  grave,  you  can  almost  see  his  life- 
time written  in  the  faces  gathered  round  about  it.  There 
stands  his  history.  There  are  his  companions  and  his  early 
associates  and  those  who  loved  him,  and  those  with  whom 
his  later  life  was  passed.  You  may  hear  the  voices  that  have 
greeted  him,  see  the  faces  he  last  looked  upon ;  you  may 


even  go  back  and  find  some  impression  of  early  youth  in 
the  young  folks  who  recall  a  past  generation  to  those  who 
remember  the  past.  And  how  many  phases  of  a  long  and 
varied  life  must  have  been  represented  in  the  great  proces- 
sion which  followed  Robert  Browning  to  his  honored  grave! 
passing  along  the  London  streets  and  moving  on  through 
the  gloomy  fog,  assembling  from  many  a  distant  place  to 
show  respect  to  one 

"Who  never  turned  his  back,  but  marched  breast  forward, 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break  ; 
Never  dreamed,  tho'  right  were  worsted, 
Wrong  would  triumph. 

Held — we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake." 


THE    END 


SOME  LITERARY  BIOGRAPHIES. 


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